POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 
AND  THE  PEACE 


STERLING  ANDRUS  LEONARD 


^C'  Cly  ^   (^^-t.^(v^^i^6j-7<^ 


POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 
AND  THE  PEACE 


COLLECTED,   WITH   A   FOREWORD 
AND   NOTES,    BY 

STERLING  ANDRUS  LEONARD 

THE    UNIVERSITY    OF   WISCONSIN 


m 


NEW   YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND   COMPANY 

1921 


COPYRIGHT,     192 1,     BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACK   AND    COMPANY,    INC. 


PRINTED    IN    THE    U.  S.   A.   BY 

THE    OUINN     0:     FODEN    COMPANY 

BAHWAY.    N.    J. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The  maker  of  an  anthology  incurs  many  and  great 
debts  which  he  can  never  adequately  repay.  Many 
editors  and  publishers,  particularly  the  editor  of  the 
Spectator,  were  at  unusual  pains  to  give  assistance;  and 
many  authors  of  poems  who  gave  their  personal  per- 
mission to  reprint  them  expressed  cordial  appreciation 
of  the  spirit  and  purpose  of  the  collection.  The  editor 
is  indebted  to  previous  anthologies  of  war  poems,  men- 
tioned in  the  bibliography,  for  help  in  locating  fugitive 
verses  and  for  information  about  authors  and  publica- 
tion. To  Professor  Carl  Van  Doren,  who  criticized  the 
list  of  selections  and  the  foreword,  and  to  Mr.  Louis 
Untermeyer  and  Dr.  William  Ellery  Leonard,  who  gave 
untiring  aid  in  discovering  and  securing  poems,  special 
thanks  and  appreciation  are  due. 

The  right  to  reprint  copyrighted  poems  is  in  every 
case  reserved  by  the  authors  or  publishers.  The  follow- 
ing have  granted  special  permission  for  the  use  in  this 
volume  of  the  poems  noted: 

Professor  William  Ellery  Leonard  and  Mr.  B.  W.  Huebsch 

for  "  The  Pied  Piper  "  from  The  Lynching  Bee  and  Other 

Poems,   Huebsch,   New  York,    1920,  and    for   Shell-Shock ; 

Mr.  Huebsch  for  "  Dulce  et  Decorum  Est "  from  Wilfred 

Owen's  Poems  (1921). 
Mrs.  Karle  Wilson  Baker  and  the  editor  of  Poetry  (Chicago) 

for  "  Unser  Gott " ;  Mrs.  Baker  and  the  editor  of  the  Yale 

Reviezv  for  "  Eagle  Youth." 
Mr.    William    Rose    Benet   and    the    late    editor    of    Reedy's 

Mirror  for  "  The  Red  Country." 

i 


11  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Mr.  F.  W.  Bourdillon  and  the  editor  of  the  Spectator  for 

"  Heart-Cry." 
Mr.  Dana  Burnet  and  the  editors  of  the  Evening   Sun   for 

"  Napoleon's  Tomb." 
Miss  Helen  Gray  Cone  for  the  title  poem  from  A  Chant  of 

Love  for  England,  and  Other  Poems. 
Charlotte    Holmes    Crawford    and    Scribncr's   Magazine    for 

"Vive  la  France!"     Copyright  1916,  by  Charles  Scribner's 

Sons.     By  permission  of  the  publishers. 
Lieutenant-Colonel  Eliot  Crawshay-Williams  and  the  Nation 

(London)    for  "A   Soldier's  Testament." 
Miss    G.    M.    Faulding    ("Damon")    and    the    Westminster 

Gazette  for  "  The  Placard." 
Mr.  Austin  Dobson  and  the  Spectator  for  "When  There  Is 

Peace"   from  A   Bookman's  Budget    (1917)  ;   Mr.   Dobson 

for  "  Clean  Hands." 
Mr.  W.  N.  Ewer  and  the  Nation  (London)  for  "  Five  Souls." 
Mr.  John  Gould  Fletcher  and  the  Yale  Review  for  "  A  New 

Heaven." 
Captain  Gilbert  Frankau  and  Mr.  Albert  A.   Knopf  for  the 

title  poem,  and  for  "  Rifleman  Brown  Comes  to  Valhalla," 

from   The   Other  Side  and  Other  Poems. 
Mr.  Robert  Frost  and  the  Yale  Review  for  "Not  to  Keep." 
Mr.  John  Galsworthy  and  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  "  Val- 
ley of  the  Shadow  "  from  A  Sheaf. 
Mrs.  Theodosia  Garrison   (Faulks)   and  Scribner's  Magazine 

for    "  The    Soul    of    Jeanne    d'Arc."      Copyright,    1917,    by 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 
Mr.  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson  and  the  Macmillan  Company  for 

"The  Question,"  "His   Father,"   and  "The  Going"   from 

Battle  and  OtJier  Verses. 
Mr.    Charles   Buxton   Going  and  Everybody's  Magazine   for 

"  Red-Robed  France." 
-Mr.    James    Norman    Hall    and    the    Atlantic    Monthly    for 

"Hate,"  first  printed  as  "  Out  of  Flanders  " ;  Mr.  Hall  for 

"A  Finger  and  a  Huge,  Thick  Thumb." 
Miss  Winifred  M.  Letts  and  the  Yale  Review  for  "  Connaught 

Rangers." 
Mr.  E.  V.  Lucas  and  the  Sphere  for  "  The  Debt." 
Mr.  P.  H.  B.  Lyon,  the  editor  of  the  Spectator,  and  Mr.  Ers- 

kine  Macdonald  for  "  Morituri  Te  Salutant "  from  Poems 

of  Youth  and  War. 
Sir  Henry  Newbolt  for  "  The  Toy  Band  "  from  Poems  New 

and  Old,  or  St.  George's  Day  (John  Murray,  London). 
Mr.    James    Oppenheim    for    the    stanzas    from    "  1914 — and 

After  "  from  War  and  Laughter;  Mr.  Oppenheim  and  Mr. 

B.  W.  Huebsch  for  "  My  Land  "  from  The  Solitary. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  111 

Mrs.  Beatrice  Ravenel  and  the  Atlantic  Monthly  for  "Miss- 
ing." 

Lady  Margaret  Sackville  for  "Quo  Vaditis?"  "Pax  Ven- 
tura," and  "  To  one  Who  Denies  the  Possibility  of  a  Per- 
manent Peace"  from  The  Pageant  of  War  (Simpkin 
Marshall,  London,  igi6). 

Captain  Siegfried  Sassoon  for  "  The  Troops  "  and  "  Attack  " 
from  Counter-Attack  and  "Aftermath"  from  Picture 
Shozv. 

Mrs.  Ethel  Talbot  Scheffauer  and  the  New  Age  (London) 
for  "The  Dead   Men's  Watch." 

Miss  Cicely  Fox  Smith  and  the  Spectator  for  "  British  Mer- 
chant Service  "  from  The  Naval  Crown  (Elkin  Matthews, 
London). 

Dr.  W.  R.  Sorley  and  the  Cambridge  University  Press  for 
"All  the  Hills  and  Vales  Along"  and  "To  Germany"  from 
Marlborough  and  Other  Poems. 
.  Mrs.  Sara  Teasdale  (Filsinger)  and  Harper's  -.Magazine  for 
"  There  Shall  Come  Soft  Rains " ;  Mrs.  Filsinger  and  the 
Macmillan  Company  for  "  Spring  in  War  Time "  from 
Rivers  to  the  Sea  (1915). 

Lady  Glenconner  and  the  London  Times  for  "  Home 
Thoughts  from  Laventie  "  by  the  Hon.  Edward  Wyndham 
Tennant. 

Mrs.  Jean  Starr  Untermeyer  and  the  Liberator  for  "During 
Darkness";  published  also  in  Growing  Pains  (1919). 

Mr.  Louis  Untermeyer  and  the  Century  Magazine  for  "  Day- 
break "  ;  Mr.  Untermeyer  and  the  Liberator  for  "On  the 
Field  of   Honor." 

Mrs.  C.  H.  Vernede  and  the  Times  (London)  for  R.  E. 
Vernede's  "A  Petition." 

Professor  George  Edward  Woodberry  and  Harcourt,  Brace 
and  Company  for  "  Edith  Cavell "  and  "  On  the  Italian 
Front." 


The  Athenaeum  for  G.  Rostrevor  Hamilton's  "  A  Cross  in 

Flanders." 
Brentano's  for  "  The  Place  "  from  Songs  of  Peace  by  Francis 

Ledwidge. 
The  Cosmopolitan  Book  Corporation,  successors  to  Hearst's 

International    Library,   for   "  Belgium "  by   Edith   Wharton 

and  "  Field  Ambulance  in  Retreat "  by  May  Sinclair  from 

King  Alb-erf s  Book. 
Country  Life   (London)   for  Mrs.  Violet  Jacob's  "  The  Twa 

Weelums." 
The  George  H.  Doran  Company  for  "  Rouge  Bouquet "  from 


IV  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Joyce  Kilmer's  Poems,  Essays,  and  Letters,  copyright  1918, 

George  H.  Doran  Company,  publishers. 
"  German  Prisoners  "  from  IVork-a-day  Warriors,  by  Joseph 

Lee;    "The    Spires    of    Oxford"    from    Hallowe'en    and 

Poems  of   the    War,  by  Winifred   M.   Letts,   published  by 

E.  P.  Button  and  Company,  New  York. 
"The  Faun   Complains,"   "In  the  Trenches    H,"   "Barrage," 

and  "  The  Young  Tree "  from  War  and  Love,  by  Richard 

Aldington,  copyrighted  by  The  Four  Seas  Company,  Boston, 

1919- 

"  For  the  Fallen "  from  The  Cause,  by  Laurence  Bmyon, 
and  "  A  Finger  and  a  Huge,  Thick  Thumb,"  by  James  Nor- 
man Hall,  by  permission  of,  and  by  special  arrangement 
with,  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 

"  The  Last  Post,"  "  Escape,"  and  "  Not  Dead  "  from  Fairies 
and  Fusiliers,  by  Robert  Graves,  and  "  The  Other  Side " 
from  The  Other  Side  and  Other  Poems,  by  Gilbert  Frankau, 
by  permission  of  Alfred  A.  Knopf,   Incorporated. 

The  John  Lane  Company  for  "The  Soldier"  and  "The 
Dead "  from  The  Collect-ed  Poems  of  Rupert  Brooke 
New  York   (1915)- 

"The  Question,"  "His  Father,"  and  "The  Going"  from 
Battle  and  Other  Poems,  by  W.  W.  Gibson ;  "  Abraham 
Lincoln  Walks  at  Midnight"  from  The  Congo  and  Other 
Poems,  by  Vachel  Lindsay ;  "  Spring  in  War  Time  "  from 
Rivers  to  the  Sea,  by  Sara  Teasdale ;  "  Misericordia  "  from 
Pietures  of  the  Floating  World,  by  Amy  Lowell ;  "  Gods  of 
War,"  by  A.  E.,  by  permission  of  the  Macmillan  Company. 

The  New  Witness  (London)  for  Cecil  Chesterton's  "Serbia 
to  the  Hohenzollerns." 

The  Ploughshare  (London)  for  E.  H.  Visiak's  "Blind  Man's 
Battle,"  reprinted  in  The  Battle  Fields  (Elkin  Matthews, 
London,   1916). 

Punch  (London)  for  Sir  Owen  Seaman's  "Thomas  of  the 
Light  Heart " ;  John  McRae's  "  In  Flanders  Fields,"  also 
published  as  the  title  poem  of  a  volume  of  his  verses  by 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York ;  and  the  anonymous  "  St. 
Ouen." 

"I  Have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death"  from  Poems  by  Alan 
Seeger,  copyright  1916  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

"  The  Bugler  "  from  Gloucestershir-e  Friends,  by  F.  W.  Har- 
vey ;  "  The  Fallen  Subaltern "  from  The  Volunteer,  and 
Other  Poems,  by  Herbert  Asquith ;  and  "  Form  Fours,"  by 
Frank  Sidgwick,  published  by  Sidgwick  and  Jackson, 
London;   by  permission   of   the   publishers. 

"  Victory — without  Peace,"  by  Clement  Wood,  from  Victory, 
brought    together    by    Mr.    William    Stanley    Braithwaite. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  V 

Copyright  1919  by  Small,  Maynard  and  Company,  Incorpo- 
rated.    Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  publishers. 

The  Spectator  (London),  for  "When  There  Is  Peace,"  by 
Austin  Dobson  (published  in  A  Bookman's  Budget  (1917)  ; 
"German  Prisoners,"  by  Joseph  Lee;  "The  Refugees,"  by 
William  G.  Shakespeare,  published  also  in  Ypres  and  Other 
Poems  (Sidgwick  and  Jackson,  London)  ;  and  "  British 
Merchant  Service,"  by  C.  Fox  Smith. 

"  The  Avenue  of  the  Allies,"  reprinted  from  The  New  Morn- 
ing, and  "  Epilogue — Intercession  "  from  A  Belgian  Christ- 
mas Eve,  by  Alfred  Noyes.  with  permission  of  Frederick 
A.  Stokes  Company. 

"Comrades"  and  "Nearer"  from  Ardours  and  Endurances, 
by  Robert  Nichols,  with  permission  of  Frederick  A.  Stokes 
Company. 

"  America  at  War,"  by  Gertrude  Smith,  from  The  College 
Anthology,  published  by  the  Stratford  Company,  Boston. 

The  Times  (London)  for  permission  to  reprint  "  Belgium 
the  Bar-Lass,"  by  Madame  Duclaux ;  "  Home  Thoughts 
from  Laventie,  by  the  Hon.  E.  Wyndham  Tennant ;  "  A 
Petition,"  by  R.  E.  Vernede,  and  "  Into  Battle,"  by  the  Hon. 
Julian  Grenfell. 

The  Westminster  Gaaette  for  "  The  Spires  of  Oxford,  by  W. 
M.  Letts,  and  "The   Placard,"  by  "Damon." 

The  Yale  Revveiv  for  John  Gould  Fletcher's  "  A  New 
Heaven,"  Robert  Frost's  "  Not  to  Keep,"  Winifred  Letts's 
"  The  Connaught  Rangers,"  and  Karle  Wilson  Baker's 
"  Eagle  Youth,"  and  for  the  quotation  in  the  Foreword, 


CONTENTS 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


PAGE 

i 


FOREWORD 


I     LOVE  OF  COUNTRY 

The  Avenue  of  the 
Alhes     . 

The  Soldier    . 

A  Chant  of  Love 
for  England 

Belgium  the  Bar- 
Lass 

Belgium    . 

Serbia  to  the  Ho- 
henzollerns  . 

On  the  Italian 
Front     . 

Red-Robed   France 

Vive  la  France !    . 

The  Soul  of  Jeanne 
d'Arc      . 

America  at  War  . 

My  Land  . 

Five   Souls 


Alfred  Noyes   . 
Rupert    Brooke 

Helen  Gray  Cone   . 

A.  Mary  F.  Robinson 
Edith  Wharton 

Cecil  Chesterton 


Thcodosia  Garrison 
Gertrude   Smith 
James  Oppenheim   . 
W.  N.  Ewer     . 


XI 


3 
6 


8 
9 

10 


George  Edivard  Woodberry  ii 
Charles  Buxton  Going  .  .  ii 
Charlotte  Holmes  Crazvjord     12 


II     PICTURES  OF  THE  WAR 


The  Sixty  Million    . 

The     Connaught' 
Rangers 

The  Spires  of  Ox- 
ford       .        .        . 

Eagle  Youth    . 

Home        Thoughts 
from  Laventie    . 

St.  Ouen  in  Picardy 

The  Place 


14 
16 

17 
18 

21 

23 


>lVinifred  Letts 


Karle   Wilson  Baker 

E.  Wyndham  Tennant 
Anonymous 
Francis  Ledzmdge   . 

vii 


25-26 


27 


28 
30 
31 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 


The  Soldier's  Whimsical  Humor 


The  Question  .       .  } 

His  Father      .        .  f 

The  Twa  Weelums 

Form   Fours    . 

The  Toy  Band 

British  Merchant 
Service,  1915 

A  Finger  and  a 
Huge  Thick 
Thumb 

Thomas  of  the 
Light   Heart 

The  Faun  Com- 
plains    . 

Escape 


Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

Violet  Jacob 
Frank  Sidgwick 
Henry  Newbolt 

Cicely  Fox  Smith  . 


James  Norman  Hall 

Owen  Seaman 

Richard  Aldington 
Robert  Graves 


"  Hate  " 


Hate 

The  Placard    . 
German     Prisoners 
To  Germany   . 
Blind  Man's  Battle 


James  Norman  Hall 

"Damon" 

Joseph   Lee 

Charles  Hamilton  Sorley 

E.  H.   Visiak    . 


Battle 


Barrage     . 
In  the  Trenches  H 
The    Troops    . 
Attack 

Shell-Shock     .       . 
Quo    Vaditis? 
The  Other   Side    . 
Field       Ambulance 

in   Retreat    . 
The  Refugees 


■  Richard  Aldington 

Siegfried  S  as  so  on   . 

William  Ellery  Leonard 
Margaret  Sackville 
Gilbert   Frankau 

May    Sinclair    . 
William  G.  Shakespeare 


The  War-Spirit 


The  Pied  Piper 
Misericordia    . 
Napoleon's  Tomb 
Gods  of   War 


William   Ellery   Leonard 
Amy  Lowell 
Dana   Burnet    . 
A.  E 


PAGE 

•  33 

■  35 

■  36 

•  37 

■  39 

.     40 


42 

46 

47 
48 

51 

53 

56 
57 
58 
58 

59 
61 

62-63 
.     64 


65 
65 

68 
69 

71 

77, 
74 
75 
76 


CONTENTS 


IX 


PAGE 


III     THE   SUPREME  SACRIFICE 79 


All  the  Hills  and 
Vales  Along 

Into    Battle      . 

Nearer 

The    Bugler    . 

The    Last    Post      . 

Morituri  te  Salutant 

A    Petition 

Dulce  et  Decorum 
Est         ... 

I  Have  a  Rendez- 
vous with  Death 

In  Flanders  Fields 

Comrades :  An  Epi- 
sode 

Hovir  Rifleman 
Brown  Came  to 
Valhalla        .       . 

The  Going  (to 
R.  B.)    .       .       . 

The  Dead 

Rouge    Bouquet     . 

The  Fallen  Sub- 
altern    . 

A  Cross  in  Flanders 

"On  the  Field  of 
Honor" 

A   Young  Tree 

For    the    Fallen    . 

The    Debt 

Edith   Cavell    . 

Not  to  Keep   . 

During  Darkness   . 

Spring  in  Wartime 

"  There  Will  Come 
Soft  Rains" 

Missinpr 

Not  Dead 

The    Heart-Cry      . 

A  New  Heaven   . 


Charles   Hamilton    Sorlcy 
Julian    Grcnjcll 
Robert  Nichols 
F.    W.  Harvey 
Robert  Graves 
P.   H.   B.   Lyon 
Robert  Ernest   Vernede 

Wilfred  Oivcn 

Alan  Seeger 
John  McRae     . 

Robert    Nichols 


Gilbert   Frankau 

Wilfrid   Wilson   Gibson 
Rupert   Brooke. 
Joyce  Kilmer    . 

Herbert  Asquith 

G.   Rostrcvor  Hamilton 

Louis    Untermeyer 
Richard  Aldington 
Laurence   Binyon    . 
E.   V.  Lucas     .... 
George  Edward  Woodberry 
Robert   Frost    .       .       .       . 
Jean  Starr   Untermeyer 


81 
82 
84 
85 
86 
86 
88 

88 

90 
91 

91 


Sara  Teasdale 


95 

100 

lOI 

102 

104 

105 

106 
107 
107 
108 
no 
III- 

112 


Beatrice  W.  Ravenel  .  .114 

Robert  Graves         .  .  .116 

F.   W.  Bourdillon   .  .  .   116 

John  Gould  Fletcher  .  .117 


CONTENTS 


IV  THE  IDEAL  OF  PEACE 


The    Red    Country 

Abraham  Lincoln 
Walks  at  Mid- 
Night     . 

When  There  Is 
Peace     . 

Clean  Hands  . 

Epilogue :  Interces- 
sion 

Unser  Gott 

Daybreak 

A  Soldier's  Testa- 
ment 

Valley  of  the 
Shadow 

Pax  Ventura  . 

To  One  Who  De- 
nies the  Possi- 
bility of  a  Per- 
manent  Peace     . 

The  Dead  Men's 
Watch    . 

Victory  —  Without 
Peace     . 

1914  —  and    After 

Aftermath 


William  Rose  Benet 

Vachcl  Lindsay 
Austin    Dobson 

Alfred  Noyes   . 

Karle   Wilson  Baker     . 

Louis    Untermeyer 

Eliot  Craxvshay-Williams 

John  Galsworthy     . 

'Margaret  Sackville 


PAGE 
120 

121 


•  123 

•  125 

.  126 
.  129 
.  132 

•  134 
.  136 

137-138 


Ethel  Talbot  Scheffauer      .  138 


Clement    Wood 
James  Oppenheini 
Siegfried  Sassoon 


.  142 
.  143 
.  144 


FOREWORD 

The  reality  of  a  great  struggle  is  always  most  truly  and 
adequately  presented  in  the  genuine  poetry  that  grows 
out  of  it.  The  plangent  debates  of  apologists  for  either 
side  will  be  analyzed  by  careful  historians,  and  filed,  with 
dates  and  statistics,  to  lie  for  the  most  part  unregarded. 
The  experiences  and  ideas  of  most  men  who  themselves 
suffered  the  horror  and  anguish  of  war  are  passed  on  to 
succeeding  generations  as  small  ripples  of  tradition,  in- 
creasingly dim  and  distorted.  But  some,  with  genius  of 
perception  and  expression,  looking  upon  the  cataclysm 
from  various  points  of  view,  seize  upon  what  seem  to 
them  its  essential  aspects  and  ideas  and  give  them 
memorable  expression.  It  is  these  poets  who  have  great 
and  lasting  power,  for  they  make  their  experience  per- 
manently vital  and  of  ultimate  value.  For  the  young 
people  of  today,  who  will  control  the  war  and  peace  of 
tomorrow,  has  been  made  this  anthology  of  poems  which 
picture  the  Great  War  and  the  spirit  and  ideals  that 
animated  it. 

It  has  been  noted  how  free  was  the  poetry  of  the 
war,  and  particularly  that  of  the  soldier  poets,  from 
hysterical  hatred  and  bitterness  of  execration.  To  those 
who  endured  its  bitterest  agony,  this  struggle  was  dif- 
ferent from  others  for  glory  and  for  conquest  in  the  past. 
These  poems,  too,  are  "  strangely  free  from  the  mood  of 

xi 


XU  FOREWORD 

the  older  war  minstrels.^  Our  poets  of  today  are  sel- 
dom tempted  by  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  armies. 
They  indulge  in  very  little  glorification  of  the  sheer  joy 
of  combat,  the  hot  hatreds  and  bloody  vengeance  of  bat- 
tle. The  war  is  seen  by  them  rather  as  a  new  atonement 
than  as  a  mighty  drama  of  arms;  and  its  heroes  for 
them  are  the  men,  the  women,  the  children,  who  have 
suffered  to  the  uttermost  for  the  redemption  of  the 
world.  The  overwhelming  grief;  the  superhuman  en- 
durance; the  poignant  and  triumphant  dignity  of  death; 
the  terrible  losses;  the  spiritual  reparation — these  are 
the  themes  that  our  war  poets  have  made  peculiarly 
their  own.  It  is  as  if  they  were  constrained  by  that 
warning  uttered  out  of  the  fulness  of  the  wisdom  of 
peace — 

The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies ; 
The  captains  and  the  kings  depart : 
Still  stands  Thine  ancient  sacrifice, 
An  humble  and  a  contrite  heart. 

"  But  for  all  the  tragedy  and  pathos,  there  is  no  weak 
lament,  no  vain  longing  for  the  peace  that  is  gone. 
Never  in  history  have  war  poets  been  so  preoccupied  with 
the  greatness  of  their  cause.  The  beauty  of  the  ideal 
toward  which  humanity  today  is  struggling  through 
blood,  touches  and  consecrates  their  art." 

For,  more  than  ever  in  the  past,  earnest  men  saw  in 
this  war  the  awful,  mad  futility  of  the  whole  world's 
suffering.  They  envisaged  clearly  the  blind  greed  and 
narrow  pride  which  bring  wars  about.    They  were  highly 

1  This  quotation  and  the  following  paragraph  are  from  the 
Foreword  to  War  Poems  from  the  Yale  Review,  New  Haven, 
1918. 


FOREWORD  Xiii 

I 

resolvea  that  this  pestilence  should  not  again  ravage  and 
slaughter.  The  mood  of  such  powerful  soldier  poems 
as  The  Other  Side  and  Aftermath  is  constant  and 
typical.  And  they  bring  out  only  too  often,  in  startling 
relief,  a  contrast  more  recently  realized  between  what 
these  common  men  felt,  what  women  also  believed  who 
sacrificed  with  high  devotion,  what  idealists  and  dream- 
ers saw  and  acclaimed — and  what  the  makers  of  war  in 
every  country  planned  and  brought  about. 

For  in  the  years  which  have  passed  since  the  armis- 
tice, a  sense  of  disillusion,  a  deepening  despair  have 
grown  dominant  in  many  men's  thought — a  doubt 
expressed  in  certain  of  the  poems  on  the  victory  and 
the  peace.  The  issue  clearly  remains  unsettled  still;  the  ( 
ideal  of  permanent  peace,  of  great  Peace  based  on  jus- 
tice, appears  increasingly  doubtful  of  achievement.  And 
because  of  this  gulf  between  what  men  fought  for  and 
what  their  rulers  ordained,  attention  to  the  poetry  which 
presents  the  experiences  and  the  ideals  of  men  in  war 
seems  of  pressing  significance.  It  is  necessary  for  us, 
and  for  our  young  people  most  of  all,  to  see  war  as  those 
realized  it  who  suffered  it  nearest  and  sharpest.  They 
must  Tcnow  it,  not  as  a  glorious  and  jolly  adventure,  but 
as  the  sternest  and  most  terrible  reality  in  human  his- 
tory. They  must  realize  that  its  undoubted  evocation 
of  sublime  courage,  as  well  as  of  looseness,  bestiality, 
and  hysterical  madness,  are  of  a  piece  with  the  like 
revelations  of  human  nature  made  by  any  catastrophe 
or  pestilence.  They  must  come  to  see,  both  why  men 
were  willing  to  endure  its  "  hell  of  murderous  servitude  " 
— ^just  to  "  secure  a  world  worth  living  in — for  you  " — 


xiv  FOREWORD 

and  why  their  agony  has  been  made  to  pay  instead  for 
fruits  of  hideous  evil.  A  keen  observer  has  pictured  re- 
cently "  the  slimy  progeny  of  cruelty,  ...  of  egoism,  of 
violence,  of  materiality  "  ^  which  has,  as  always  before, 
succeeded  this  conflict.  War  after  war  flaming  up  in 
Europe  and  Asia  demonstrates  the  peoples'  sense  of  in- 
justice in  the  peace  decreed.  Only  in  the  light  of  full 
understanding  of  these  things  can  we  now,  and  in  after 
times,  rightly  assess  the  guilt  for  the  conduct  of  the  war 
as  well  as  for  its  origin,  and  for  the  negotiations  since 
the  war  has  ceased.  Only  through  this  realization  can 
the  aftermath  of  this  unimaginable  horror  be  a  genuine 
gain  in  human  understanding  and  in  control  over  the 
mad  forces  that  have  periodically  ridden  down  our  slight 
barriers  of  civilization. 

The  poems  have  grouped  themselves  naturally  into 
four  divisions.  First  are  those  expressing  love  of  coun- 
try— not  bombast  and  rodomontade,  but  serious  expres- 
sions of  intensity  of  conviction.  Scarcely  can  we  find 
anywhere  more  various  and  beautiful  embodiments  of 
this  stirring  and  mighty  power,  which  moved  in  count- 
less armies  the  Five  Souls  of  Mr.  Ewer's  poem  to  brave 
deeds  and  lowly,  terrible  deaths — seventeen  million 
deaths. 

The  war  is  next  pictured  in  various  aspects,  sincerely, 
as  it  was  felt  and  observed.  The  hysterical  anger,  the 
military  swank,  and  the  "  eyewash  stuff "  of  its  early 
days    in    each    country    were    quickly   passed    by    and 

2Sisley  Huddleton:  "The  Menace  of  the  World,"  Atlantic, 
May,  1920. 


FOREWORD  ^y 

forgotten.  Instead  there  stand  out,  in  these  more  en- 
during verses,  pictures  of  men  who  faced  death  with 
dauntless  courage  and  whimsical  humor,  and  viewed 
largely  the  forces  in  conflict.  Here,  too,  we  see  the 
common  soldiers  who,  without  personal  hope  or  illu- 
sions, endured  the  foulness  and  the  agony.  The  poems 
of  this  section  are  given  an  epic  touch  by  A.  E.'s  picture 
of  the  pagan  gods  of  war  snuffing  satisfied  at  the  carnage. 

The  supreme  sacrifice  is  recorded  in  the  most  poignant 
and  glorious  poems  of  the  war.  The  quiet  flame  of 
courage  and  consecration,  the  bitterness  of  women's 
agony  quenched  by  stern  resolution,  make  up  an  incom- 
parable picture  of  the  human  spirit  raising  itself  above 
this  devastation  and  torment.  The  conception  of  "  A 
New  Heaven,"  the  fit  tabernacle  for  so  godlike  a  spirit, 
concludes  this  division. 

Finally,  the  ideal  of  those  who  endured  the  brunt  of 
the  war  and  carried  it  through — the  ideal  of  a  peace 
lasting  because  just — is  presented  in  various  forms:  We 
must  have  a  greater  view  of  God  than  our  small,  vengeful 
tribal  deities  afford;  we  must  have  clean  hands,  and 
"loftier,  nobler  aims";  we  must  achieve  a  "great  re- 
union with  our  foe";  above  all,  we  must  "create  great 
Peace."  This  is  the  recurrent  theme  of  the  poets  who 
have  tried  to  express  the  highest  ideals  that  grew  up  in 
the  years  of  horror.  But  "  woe  to  the  nation  that  looks 
for  peace  in  quietness,"  the  quietness  that  allows  millions 
to  starve — "  starved  hearts,  starved  freedoms  " — below 
the  level  of  adequate  and  decent  life.  Such  peace  kills 
men  just  as  cruelly  and  surely  as  does  war,  by  pre- 
ventable diseases  and  accidents  and  the  slow  decay  of 


XVI  FOREWORD 

poverty.  It  uses  them  up  for  causes  no  more  worthy, 
and  without  noble  illusion  of  sacrifice  for  country  or 
for  freedom.  For  numbers  of  men  the  hell  of  war,  that 
"  blackens  the  early  violets  with  the  blood  of  the 
young,"  is  almost  a  relief  from  the  dull  miseries  of  such 
peace.    Only  as  we  create 

The  Peace  that  demands  all  of  a  man, 

His  love,  his  life,  his  veriest  self; 

Kindle  him  to  vision,  invite  him  to  joy  and  adventure : 

Set  him  to  work,  not  to  create  things 

But  to  create  men  .    .    . 

Yea,  himself — 

only  so  can  we  make  sure  that  these  dead  shall  not  have 
died  in  vain.^ 

Only  in  view  of  these  ideals  is  the  meaning  of  the  love 
of  country,  of  the  various  fineness  and  nobility  and  the 
unequaled  courage  of  sacrifice  of  the  human  spirit,  to  be 
read  aright.  Only  for  this  was  its  suffering  meaningful. 
In  the  deep  rejoicing  at  the  coming  of  peace — 

Everyone  suddenly  burst  out  singing;   .    .   . 
And  beauty  came  like  the  setting  sun : 
My  heart  was  shaken  with  tears ;  and  horror 
Drifted  away  .    .    .  O,  but  everyone 

Was  a  bird ;  and  the  song  was  wordless,  the  singing  will  never 
be  done.* 

But  this  mood  passed  gradually  away,  in  a  growing 
fear   that   we   may   have  won   victory — without   peace. 

3  The  last  few  quotations  in  this  paragraph  are  from  James 
Oppenheim's  "  1914— and  After"  {War  and  Laughter,  Cen- 
tury, 1916). 

4  From  "  Everyone  Sang,"  in  Siegfried  Sassoon's  Picture 
Show  (Dutton,  1920). 


FOREWORD  XVll 

The  poems  of  the  war  and  the  peace  end  on  a  note  of 
question — a  question  that  has  troubled  thinking  men 
since  the  armistice.  Has  the  high  ideal  been  anywise 
met,  or  the  seeds  of  true  peace  been  sown?  Or  have 
we  only  scattered  the  dragon's  teeth  anew?  To  the 
earnest  and  thoughtful  consideration  of  that  question 
this  anthology  is  dedicated. 

The  editor  regrets  that  it  was  impossible  to  get  leave 
for  reprinting  Mr.  Masefield's  August,  1914;  it  is  most 
unfortunate  that  this  great  poem  has  been  withheld 
from  the  anthologies,  and  hence  is  less  widely  known 
than  it  should  be.  Only  one  or  two  other  verses  have 
had  to  be  left  out  because  of  like  difficulties.  But  in  a 
collection  like  this  one,  intended  for  a  definite  audience, 
it  has  seemed  necessary  also  to  omit  several  poems,  in 
themselves  of  high  excellence  and  beauty,  which  high- 
school  students  could  not  be  expected  to  apprehend  or 
to  appreciate. 

Cape  Rozier,  Maine, 
September,  1920. 


I 

LOVE  OF  COUNTRY 

'Tis  all  that  we  think  but  cannot  say, 
Even  in  song,  though  that  is  the  nearest  way. 

Emile  Cammaerts. 


POEMS  OF  THE  WAR  AND 
THE  PEACE 

"  THE  AVENUE  OF  THE  ALLIES  " 

This  is  the  song  of  the  wind  as  it  came 
Tossing  the  flags  of  the  nations  to  flame: 

/  am  the  breath  of  God.    I  am  His  laughter. 
I  am  His  Liberty.     That  is  my  name. 

So  it  descended,  at  night,  on  the  city. 
So  it  went  lavishing  beauty  and  pity, 
Lighting  the  lordliest  street  of  the  world 
With  half  of  the  banners  that  earth  has  unfurled; 
Over  the  lamps  that  are  brighter  than  stars, 
Laughing  aloud  on  its  way  to  the  wars, 
Proud  as  America  sweeping  along 
Death  and  destruction  like  notes  in  a  song, 
Leaping  to  battle  as  man  to  his  mate, 
Joyous  as  God  when  He  moved  to  create, — 
Never  was  voice  of  a  nation  so  glorious. 
Glad  of  its  cause  and  afire  with  its  fate! 
Never  did  eagle  on  mightier  pinion 
Tower  to  the  height  of  a  brighter  dominion. 
Kindling  the  hope  of  the  prophets  to  flame. 
Calling  aloud  on  the  deep  as  it  came, 

3 


POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

Cleave  me  a  way  for  an  army  with  banners. 
I  am  His  Liberty.     That  is  my  name. 

Know  you  the  meaning  of  all  they  are  domg? 
Know  you  the  light  that  their  soul  is  pursuing? 
Know  you  the  might  of  the  world  they  are  making, 
This  nation  of  nations  whose  heart  is  awaking? 
What  is  this  mingling  of  peoples  and  races? 
Look  at  the  wonder  and  joy  in  their  faces! 
Look  how  the  folds  of  the  union  are  spreading! 
Look,  for  the  nations  are  come  to  their  wedding. 
How  shall  the  folk  of  our  tongue  be  afraid  of  it? 
England  was  born  of  it,  England  was  made  of  it, 
Made  of  this  welding  of  tribes  into  one, 
This  marriage  of  pilgrims  that  followed  the  sun! 
Britain  and  Roman  and  Saxon  were  drawn 
By  winds  of  this  Pentecost,  out  of  the  dawn, 
Westward,  to  make  her  one  people  of  many; 
But  here  is  a  union  more  mighty  than  any. 
Know  you  the  soul  of  this  deep  exultation? 
Know  you  the  word  that  goes  forth  to  this  nation? 

/  am  the  breath  of  God.  I  am  His  Liberty. 
Let  there  be  light  over  all  His  creation. 

Over  this  continent  wholly  united. 
They  that  were  foemen  in  Europe  are  plighted. 
Here,  in  a  league  that  our  blindness  and  pride 
Doubted  and  flouted  and  mocked  and  denied, 
Dawns  the  Republic,  the  laughing,  gigantic 
Europe,  united,  beyond  the  Atlantic. 
That  is  America,  speaking  one  tongue, 
Acting  her  epics  before  they  are  sung, 


LOVE   OF   COUNTRY  5 

Driving  her  rails  from  the  palms  to  the  snow, 
Through  States  that  are  greater  than  emperors  know, 
Forty-eight  States  that  are  empires  in  might, 
But  ruled  by  the  will  of  one  people  tonight, 
Nerved  as  one  body  with  net- works  of  steel, 
Merging  their  strength  in  the  one  Commonweal, 
Brooking  no  poverty,  mocking  at  Mars, 
Building  their  cities  to  talk  with  the  stars. 
Thriving,  increasing  by  myriads  again 
Till  even  in  numbers  old  Europe  may  wane. 
How  shall  a  son  of  the  England  they  fought 
Fail  to  declare  the  full  pride  of  his  thought, 
Stand  with  the  scoffers  who,  year  after  year, 
Bring  the  Republic  their  half-hidden  sneer? 
Now,  as  in  beauty  she  stands  at  our  side. 
Who  shall  withhold  the  full  gift  of  his  pride? 
Not  the  great  England  who  knows  that  her  son, 
Washington,  fought  her,  and  Liberty  won; 
England,  whose  names  like  the  stars  in  their  station 
Stand  at  the  foot  of  that  world's  Declaration. 
Washington,  Livingston,  Langdon,  she  claims  them, 
It  is  her  right  to  be  proud  when  she  names  them. 
Proud  of  that  voice  in  the  night  as  it  came. 
Tossing  the  flags  of  the  nations  to  flame: 

/  am  the  breath  of  God.    I  am  His  laughter. 
I  am  His  Liberty.     That  is  my  name. 

Flags  in  themselves  are  but  rags  that  are  dyed. 
Flags,  in  that  wind,  are  like  nations  enskied. 
See  how  they  grapple  the  night  as  it  rolls 
And  trample  it  under  like  triumphing  souls. 


POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

Over  the  city  that  never  knew  sleep, 
Lx)ok  at  the  riotous  folds  as  they  leap. 
Thousands  of  tri-colors,  laughing  for  France, 
Ripple  and  whisper  and  thunder  and  dance; 
Thousands  of  flags  for  Great  Britain  aflame 
Answer  their  sisters  in  Liberty's  name. 
Belgium  is  burning  in  pride  overhead. 
Poland  is  near,  and  her  sunrise  is  red. 
Under  and  over  and  fluttering  between, 
Italy  burgeons  in  red,  white,  and  green. 
See,  how  they  climb,  like  adventurous  flowers. 
Over  the  tops  of  the  terrible  towers.  .    .    . 
There  in  the  darkness,  the  glories  are  mated. 
There  in  the  darkness,  a  world  is  created. 
There,  in  this  Pentecost,  streaming  on  high. 
There  with  a  glory  of  stars  in  the  sky. 
There  the  broad  flag  of  our  union  and  liberty 
Rides  the  proud  night-wind  and  tyrannies  die. 

Alfred  Noyes 


THE  SOLDIER 

If  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me: 

That  there's  some  corner  of  a  foreign  field 
That  is  for  ever  England.    There  shall  be 

In  that  rich  earth  a  richer  dust  concealed; 
A  dust  whom  England  bore,  shaped,  made  aware. 

Gave,  once,  her  flowers  to  love,  her  ways  to  roam, 
A  body  of  England's,  breathing  English  air, 

Washed  by  the  rivers,  blest  by  suns  of  home. 


LOVE   OF   COUNTRY  7 

And  think,  this  heart,  all  evil  shed  away, 
A  pulse  in  the  eternal  mind,  no  less 

Gives  somewhere  back  the  thoughts  by  England  given; 
Her  sights  and  sounds;  dreams  happy  as  her  day; 
And  laughter,  learnt  of  friends;  and  gentleness. 
In  hearts  at  peace,  under  an  English  heaven. 

Rup'ert  Brooke 

A  CHANT  OF  LOVE  FOR  ENGLAND  ^ 

A  SONG  of  hate  is  a  song  of  Hell; 
Some  there  be  that  sing  it  well. 
Let  them  sing  it  loud  and  long, 
We  lift  our  hearts  in  a  loftier  song: 
We  lift  our  hearts  to  Heaven  above, 
Singing  the  glory  of  her  we  love, — 
England! 

Glory  of  thought  and  glory  of  deed, 
Glory  of  Hampden  and  Runnymede; 
Glory  of  ships  that  sought  far  goals, 
Glory  of  swords  and  glory  of  souls! 
Glory  of  songs  mounting  as  birds, 
Glory  immortal  of  magical  words; 
Glory  of  Milton,  glory  of  Nelson, 
Tragical  glory  of  Gordon  and  Scott; 
Glory  of  Shelley,  glory  of  Sidney, 
Glory  transcendent  that  perishes  not, — 
Hers  is  the  story,  hers  be  the  glory, 
England! 

1  Taken  by  permission  from  A  Chant  of  Love  for  England, 
and  Other  Poems,  by  Helen  Gray  Cone.  E.  P.  Dutton  and 
Company,  New  York,  publishers. 


S  POEMS   OF    THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

Shatter  her  beauteous  breast  ye  may; 
The  spirit  of  England  none  can  slay! 
Dash  the  bomb  on  the  dome  of  Paul's — 
Deem  ye  the  fame  of  the  Admiral  falls? 
Pry  the  stone  from  the  chancel  floor — 
Dream  ye  that  Shakespeare  shall  live  no  more? 
Where  is  the  giant  shot  that  kills 
Wordsworth  walking  the  old  green  hills? 
Trample  the  red  rose  on  the  ground — 
Keats  is  Beauty  while  earth  spins  round! 
Bind  her,  grind  her,  burn  her  with  fire, 
Cast  her  ashes  into  the  sea, — 
She  shall  escape,  she  shall  aspire, 
She  shall  arise  to  make  men  free: 
She  shall  arise  in  a  sacred  scorn, 
Lighting  the  lives  that  are  yet  unborn; 
Spirit  supernal,  Splendour  eternal, 
ENGLAND! 

Helen  Gray  Cone 


BELGIUM  THE  BAR-LASS 

The  night  was  still.    The  King  sat  with  the  Queen. 
She  sang.    Her  maidens  spun,    A  peaceful  scene. 

Sudden,  wild  echoes  shake  the  castle  wall. 
Their  foes  come  crashing  through  the  outer  hall. 

They  rush  like  thunder  down  the  gallery  floor  .    .    . 
.    .    .  Someone  has  stolen  the  bolt  that  bars  the  door! 


LOVE   OF   COUNTRY  < 

No  pin  to  hold  the  loops,  no  stick,  no  stave, 
Nothing!     An  open  door,  an  open  grave! 

Then  Catherine  Bar-lass  thrust  her  naked  arm 
(A  girl's  arm,  white  as  milk,  alive  and  warm) 

Right  through  the  loops  from  which  the  bolt  was  gone: 
"  'Twill  hold  (she  said)  until  they  break  the  bone — 

My  King,  you  have  one  instant  to  prepare!  " 
She  said  no  more,  because  the  thrust  was  there. 


A.  Mary  F.  Robinson 

{Madame  Duclaux) 


BELGIUM 

La  Belgique  ne  regrette  Hen,. 

Not  with  her  ruined  silver  spires, 
Not  with  her  cities  shamed  and  rent, 
Perish  the  imperishable  fires 
That  shape  the  homestead  from  the  tent. 

Wherever  men  are  staunch  and  free, 
There  shall  she  keep  her  fearless  state. 
And,  homeless,  to  great  nations  be 
The  home  of  all  that  makes  them  great. 

Edith  Wharton 


10  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

SERBIA  TO  THE  HOHENZOLLERNS 

{August,  19 1 5) 

I  AM  she  whose  ramparts,  ringed  with  Christian  swords, 
Bore  the  first  huge  batterings  of  the  Paynim  hordes. 
Ground  beneath  their  horse-hoofs,  broken  by  their  blows, 
I  was  made  a  pavement  for  the  feet  of  foes: 
Mighty  lords  from  Asia,  proud  above  their  peers. 
Rode  over  my  body  for  three  hundred  years: 
Buried  under  armies,  hopeless  did  I  lie, 
Hanging  on  to  honor,  sick  for  liberty; 
Cried  to  Christ  for  justice,  grasped  a  broken  rood, 
Saw  each  hope  that  flickered,  stifled,  drowned  in  blood; 
Saw  through  torturing  ages,  dreadfully  arrayed, 
Antichrist,  all  armored,  riding  in  Belgrade! 

So  the  iron  bit  my  soul;  and  that  soul  became 
Iron,  fit  for  warriors'  use,  tempered  in  the  flame 
By  my  sweat  and  anguish;  out  of  my  despair, 
Step  by  step  I  won  it  back,  the  name  that  now  I  bear. 
Upstarts!     Can  you  teach  me  any  wrong  or  woe, 
Tyranny  or  torture  that  I  do  not  know? 
Bid  your  heathen  armies  glut  all  hell  with  crimes! 
Loose  your  hounds  of  carnage!     'TwiU  be  like  old  times. 
Though  your  hand  be  heavy,  though  your  head  be  high, 
Othman's  head  was  higher  in  the  days  gone  by! 
I,  that  died  and  am  alive,  call  on  God  that  He, 
Who  shall  judge  the  quick  and  dead,  judge  'twixt  you 
and  me! 

Cecil  Chesterton 


LOVE   OF   COUNTRY  II 

ON  THE  ITALIAN  FRONT,  MCMXVl 

"  I  WILL  die  cheering,  if  I  needs  must  die ; 

So  shall  my  last  breath  write  upon  my  lips 

Viva  Italia!  when  my  spirit  slips 
Down  the  great  darkness  from  the  mountain  sky; 
And  those  who  shall  behold  me  where  I  lie 

Shall  murmur:  '  Look,  you!  how  his  spirit  dips 

From  glory  into  glory!  the  eclipse 
Of  death  is  vanquished!     Lo,  his  victor-cry!  ' 

"  Live,  thou,  upon  my  lips,  Italia  mine, 
The  sacred  death-cry  of  my  frozen  clay! 

Let  thy  dear  light  from  my  dead  body  shine 
And  to  the  passer-by  thy  message  say: 

'  Ecco!  though  heaven  has  made  my  skies  divine, 
My  sons'  love  sanctifies  my  soil  for  aye!  ' " 

George  Edward  Woodberry 


RED-ROBED  FRANCE 

The  Huns  stripped  off  my  own  green  gown 

And  left  me  stark  and  bare; 
My  sons,  they  spread  a  red  robe  down 

And  wrapped  me  in  it  there. 

The  garb  they  brought  was  red  as  blood — 

The  robe  was  red  as  flame; 
They  wrapped  me  in  it  where  I  stood 

And  took  away  my  shame. 


12  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

Was  ever  web  so  costly  wove 

Or  warp  so  glorious  spun? 
I'll  wear  no  vestment  prized  above 

That  wide  and  scarlet  one. 

Though  younger  sons,  some  happier  day, 

Weave  me  a  fair  green  gown 
Anew,  or  bid  me  don  array 

Of  corn-ripe  gold  and  brown, 

The  names — like  beads,  told  one  by  one — 

My  heart  will  still  repeat; 
Will  call,  with  tears,  each  dear,  dear  son, 

Whose  red  robe  wrapped  my  feet. 

Charles  Buxton  Going 

VIVE  LA  FRANCE! 

Franceline  rose  in  the  dawning  gray, 
And  her  heart  would  dance,  though  she  knelt  to  pray, 
For  her  man  Michel  had  holiday, 
Fighting  for  France. 

She  offered  her  prayer  by  the  cradle-side, 
And  with  baby  palms  folded  in  hers  she  cried: 
"  If  I  have  but  one  prayer,  dear,  crucified 
Christ — save  France! 

"  But  if  I  have  two,  then,  by  Mary's  grace, 
Carry  me  safe  to  the  meeting-place, 
Let  me  look  once  again  on  my  dear  love's  face, 
Save  him  for  France!  " 


LOVE   OF   COUNTRY  1 3 

She  crooned  to  her  boy:  "  Oh,  how  glad  he'll  be, 
Little  three-months-old,  to  set  eyes  on  thee! 
For,  '  Rather  than  gold,  would  I  give/  wrote  he, 
*  A  son  to  France.' 

*'  Come,  now,  be  good,  little  stray  sauterelle, 
For  we're  going  by-by  to  thy  papa  Michel, 
But  I'll  not  say  where  for  fear  thou  wilt  tell. 
Little  pigeon  of  France! 

"Six  days'  leave  and  a  year  between! 
But  what  would  you  have?     In  six  days  clean, 
Heaven  was  made,'"'  said  Franceline, 
"  Heaven  and  France." 

She  came  to  the  town  of  the  nameless  name, 
To  the  marching  troops  in  the  street  she  came. 
And  she  held  high  her  boy  like  a  taper  flame 
Burning  for  France. 

Fresh  from  the  trenches  and  gray  with  grime, 
Silent  they  march  like  a  pantomime; 
"  But  what  need  of  music?    My  heart  beats  time — 
Vive  la  France!  " 

His  regiment  comes.    Oh,  then  where  is  he? 
"There  is  dust  in  my  eyes,  for  I  cannot  see — 
Is  that  my  Michel  to  the  right  of  thee, 
Soldier  of  France?  " 

Then  out  of  the  ranks  a  comrade  fell — 
"  Yesterday — 't  was  a  splinter  of  shell — 
And  he  whispered  thy  name,  did  thy  poor  Michel, 
Dying  for  France." 


14  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR  AND   THE   PEACE 

The  tread  of  the  troops  on  the  pavement  throbbed 
Like  a  woman's  heart  of  its  last  joy  robbed, 
As  she  lifted  her  boy  to  the  flag,  and  sobbed: 
"  Vive  la  France!  " 

Charlotte  Holmes  Crawford 


THE  SOUL  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

She  came  not  into  the  Presence  as  a  martyred  saint  might 

come, 
Crowned,  white-robed  and  adoring,  with  very  reverence 

dumb — 
She  stood  as  a  straight  young  soldier,  confident,  gallant, 

strong. 
Who  asks  a  boon  of  his  captain  in  the  sudden  hush  of 

the  drum. 

She  said:  "■  Now  have  I  stayed  too  long  in  this  my  place 
of  blisS; 

With  these  glad  dead  that,  comforted,  forget  what  sor- 
row is 

Upon  that  world  whose  stony  stairs  they  climbed  to 
come  to  this. 

"  But  lo,  a  cry  hath  torn  the  peace  wherein  so  long  I 

stayed, 
Like  a  trumpet's  call  at  Heaven's  wall  from  a  herald 

unafraid — 
A  million  voices  in  one  cry,  *  Where  is  the  Maid,  the 

Maid? ' 


LOVE   OF   COUNTRY  "  1$ 

"  I  had  forgot  from  too  much  joy  that  olden  task  of 

mine, 
But  I  have   heard  a   certain   word   shatter   the   chant 

divine, 
Have  watched  a  banner  glow  and  grow  before  mine  eyes 

for  sign. 

*'  I  would  return  to  that  my  land  flung  in  the  teeth  of 

war, 
I  would  cast  down  my  robe  and  crown  that  pleasure 

me  no  more, 
And  don  the  armor  that  I  knew,  the  valiant  sword  I 

bore. 

"  And  angels  militant  shall  fling  the  gates  of  Heaven 

wide, 
And  souls  new-dead  whose  lives  were  shed  like  leaves 

on  war's  red  tide 
Shall  cross  their  swords  above  our  heads  and  cheer  us 

as  we  ride. 

"  For  with  me  goes  that  soldier  saint,  Saint  Michael  of 

the  sword, 
And  I  shall  ride  on  his  right  side,  a  page  beside  his 

lord. 
And  men  shall  follow  like  swift  blades  to  reap  a  sure 

reward. 

"  Grant  that  I  answer   this  my  call,  yea,  though  the 

end  may  be 
The    naked    shame,    the    biting    flame,    the   last,    long 

agony; 
I  would  go  singing  down  that  road  where  fagots  wait 

for  me. 


1 6  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

"  Mine  be  the  fire  about  my  feet,  the  smoke  above  my 

head; 
So  might  I  glow,  a  torch  to  show  the  path  my  heroes 

tread ; 
My  Captain!    Oh,  my  Captain,  let  me  go  back! "  she 

said. 

Theodosia  Garrison 


AMERICA  AT  WAR 

America, 

If  thy  sons  can  go  to  war 

Thinking — 

If  men  democracy-trained  can  fight 

And  not  glory  in  it 

But  earnestly  regret  that  war  must  be — 

If  they  can  follow  thy  banner 

And  know 

That  its  red  does  not  represent  blood 

But  sunrise, 

That  its  white 

Is  not  death  but  deliverance, 

That  its  stars 

Are  not  pilots  for  warships 

But  makers  of  poetry — 

O  America, 

Then  shall  democracy  conquer 

And  war  shall  never  more  be. 

Gertrude  Smith 


LOVE   OF    COUNTRY  1 7 


MY  LAND 

Not  for  long  can  I  be  angry  with  the  most  beautiful — 
I  look  out  of  my  vengefulness,  and  see  her  so  young,  so 

vastly  young, 
Wandering  her  fields  beside  Huron, 
Or  peering  over  Mt.  Ranier. 

Is  she  in  daisies  up  to  her  knees? 

Do  I  see  that  fresh  white  smile  of  hers  in  the  morning- 
shadowed  city? 

Is  she  clinging  to  the  headlight  of  the  locomotive  that 
roars  between  the  pine-lone  mountains? 

Are  her  ankles  in  the  wash  of  sea-weed  beside  the  sea- 
battered  rocks? 

Ah!  never  the  curve  of  a  hill  but  she  has  just  gone  be- 
yond it, 

And  the  prairies  are  as  sweet  with  her  as  with  clover 
and  sage.  .    .    . 

Her  young  breasts  are  soft  against  willow-leaves, 

Her  hands  are  quicker  than  birds  in  the  vagueness  of 
the  forest. 

Whether  it  is  a  dream  that  I  have  honey-gathered  from 

the  years  of  my  days, 
Whether  it  is  so,  and  no  dream, 
I  cannot  help  the  love  that  goes  out  of  me  to  these  plains 

and  hills, 
These  coasts,  these  cities,  and  these  seas, 

James  Oppenheim 


1 8  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 


FIVE  SOULS 

FIRST   SOUL 

I  was  a  peasant  of  the  Polish  plain; 

I  left  my  plough  because  the  message  ran: 
Russia,  in  danger,  needed  every  man 

To  save  her  from  the  Teuton;  and  was  slain. 
/  gave  my  life  for  freedom — This  I  know: 
For  those  who  bade  me  fight  had  told  me  so. 

SECOND   SOUL 

I  was  a  Tyrolese,  a  mountaineer; 

I  gladly  left  my  mountain  home  to  fight 
Against  the  brutal,  treacherous  Muscovite; 

And  died  in  Poland  on  a  Cossack  spear. 
/  gave  my  life  for  freedom — This  I  know: 
For  those  who  bade  me  fight  had  told  me  so. 

THIRD    SOUL 

I  worked  at  Lyons  at  my  weaver's  loom, 
When  suddenly  the  Prussian  despot  hurled 
His  felon  blow  at  France  and  at  the  world; 

Then  went  I  forth  to  Belgium  and  my  doom. 
/  gave  my  life  for  freedom — This  I  know: 
For  those  who  bade  me  fight  had  told  me  so. 

FOURTH   SOUL 

I  owned  a  vineyard  by  the  wooded  Main, 
Until  the  Fatherland,  begirt  by  foes 
Lusting  her  downfall,  called  me,  and  I  rose 


LOVE   OF   COUNTRY  IQ 

Swift  to  the  call,  and  died  in  fair  Lorraine. 
/  gave  my  life  for  freedom — This  I  know: 
For  those  who  bade  me  fight  had  told  me  so. 

FIFTH    SOUL 

I  worked  in  a  great  shipyard  by  the  Clyde. 
There  came  a  sudden  word  of  wars  declared, 
Of  Belgium,  peaceful,  helpless,  unprepared, 

Asking  our  aid:  I  joined  the  ranks,  and  died. 
/  gave  my  life  for  freedom — This  I  know: 
For  those  who  bade  me  fight  had  told  me  so. 

W.  N.  Ewer 


II 

PICTURES  OF  THE  WAR 

Not  for  themselves,  O  daughters,  grandsons,  sons. 
Your  tortured  forebears  wrought  this  miracle; 
Not  for  themselves  accomplished  utterly 
This  loathhest  task  of  murderous  servitude; 
But  just  because  they  realized  that  thus, 
And  only  thus,  by  sacrifice,  might  they 
Secure  a  world  worth  living  in — for  you. 

Gilbert  Frankau 


THE  SIXTY  MILLION 

Men  who  march  away. 

"  Yes ;  quaint  and  curious  war  is ! 

You   shoot   a   fellow   down 
You'd  treat,  if  met  where  any  bar  is, 

Or  help   to   half-a-crown." 

Thomas  Hardy 


THE  CONNAUGHT  RANGERS 

I  SAW  the  Connaught  Rangers  when  they  were  pass- 
ing by, 
On  a  spring  day,  a  good  day,  with  gold  rifts  in  the  sky. 
Themselves  were  marching  steadily  along  the  Liffey  quay 
An'  I  see  the  young  proud  look  of  them  as  if  it  was 

to-day ! 
The  bright  lads,  the  right  lads,  I  have  them  in  my  mind, 
With  the  green  flags  on  their  bayonets  all  fluttering  in 
the  wind! 

A  last  look  at  old  Ireland,  a  last  good-bye  maybe, 
Then  the  gray  sea,  the  wide  sea,  my  grief  upon  the  sea! 
And  when  will  they  come  home,  says  I,  when  will  they 

see  once  more 
The  dear  blue  hills  of  Wicklow  and  Wexford's  dim  gray 

shore? 
The  brave  lads  of  Ireland,  no  better  lads  you'll  find, 
With  the  green  flags  on  their  bayonets  all  fluttering  in 

the  wind! 

Three  years  have  passed  since  that  spring  day,  sad  years 

for  them  and  me. 
Green  graves  there  are  in  Serbia  and  in  Gallipoli. 
And  many  who  went  by  that  day  along  the  muddy  street 
Will  never  hear  the  roadway  ring  to  their  triumphant 

feet. 

25 


26  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

But  when  they  march  before  Him,  God's  welcome  will 

be  kind, 
And  the  green  flags  on  their  bayonets  will  flutter  in  the 

wind. 

Winifred  M.  L-etts 


THE  SPIRES  OF  OXFORD 

I  SAW  the  spires  of  Oxford 

As  I  was  passing  by, 
The  gray  spires  of  Oxford 

Against  a  pearl-gray  sky. 
My  heart  was  with  the  Oxford  men 

Who  went  abroad  to  die. 

The  years  go  fast  in  Oxford, 
The  golden  years  and  gay, 

The  hoary  Colleges  look  down 
On  careless  boys  at  play. 

But  when  the  bugles  sounded  war 
They  put  their  games  away. 

They  left  the  peaceful  river, 
The  cricket-field,   the  quad, 

The  shaven  lawns  of  Oxford, 
To  seek  a  bloody  sod — 

They  gave  their  merry  youth  away 
For  country  and  for  God. 

God  rest  you,  happy  gentlemen, 

Who  laid  your  good  lives  down, 
Who  took  the  khaki  and  the  gun 


PICTURES   OF   THE   WAR  2^ 

Instead  of  cap  and  gown! 
God  bring  you  to  a  fairer  place 
Than  even  Oxford  town! 

Winifred  M.  Letts 


EAGLE  YOUTH 

{1918) 

They  have  taken  his  horse  and  plume, 
They  have  left  him  to  plod,  and  fume 
For  a  hero's  scope  and  room! 
They  have  curbed  his  fighting  pride, 
They  have  bade  him  burrow  and  hide 
With  a  million,  side  by  side: 

Look — into  the  air  he  springs. 

Fighting  with  wings! 

He  has  found  a  way  to  be  free 

Of  that  dun  immensity 

That  would  swallow  up  such  as  he: 

Who  would  burrow  when  he  could  fly? 

He  will  climb  up  into  the  sky 

And  the  world  shall  watch  him  die! 

Only  his  peers  may  dare 

Follow  him  there! 

Karle  Wilson  Baker 


28  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR  AND   THE   PEACE 


HOME  THOUGHTS  FROM  LAVENTIE 

Green  gardens  in  Laventie! 

Soldiers  only  know  the  street 

Where  the  mud  is  churned  and  splashed  about 

By  battle- wending  feet; 
And  yet  beside  one  stricken  house  there  is  a  glimpse  of 
grass — 

Look  for  it  when  you  pass. 

Beyond  the  church  whose  pitted  spire 

Seems  balanced  on  a  strand 

Of  swaying  stone  and  tottering  brick, 

Two  roofless  ruins  stand; 
And  here,   among  the  wreckage,   where   the  back-wall 
should  have  been. 

We  found  a  garden  green. 

The  grass  was  never  trodden  on, 

The  little  path  of  gravel 

Was  overgrown  with  celandine; 

No  other  folk  did  travel 
Along  its  weedy  surface  but  the  nimble-footed  mouse, 

Running  from  house  to  house. 

So  all  along  the  tender  blades 

Of  soft  and  vivid  grass 

We  lay,  nor  heard  the  limber  wheels 

That  pass  and  ever  pass 
In  noisy  continuity  until  their  stony  rattle 

Seems  in  itself  a  battle. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   WAR  29 

At  length  we  rose  up  from  this  ease 

Of  tranquil  happy  mind, 

And  searched  the  garden's  little  length 

Some  new  pleasaunce  to  find; 
And  there  some  yellow  daffodils,  and  jasmine  hanging 
high, 

Did  rest  the  tired  eye. 

The  fairest  and  most  fragrant 
Of  the  many  sweets  we  found 
Was  a  little  bush  of  Daphne  flower 

Upon  a  mossy  mound. 
And  so  thick  were  the  blossoms  set  and  so  divine  the 
scent, 

That  we  were  well  content. 

Hungry  for  Spring  I  bent  my  head, 
The  perfume  fanned  my  face. 
And  all  my  soul  was  dancing 

In  that  lovely  little  place, 
Dancing  with  a  measured  step  from  wrecked  and  shat- 
tered towns 

Away  .  .   .  upon  the  Downs. 

I  saw  green  banks  of  daffodil. 

Slim  poplars  in  the  breeze, 

Great  tan-brown  hares  in  gusty  March 

A-courting  on  the  leas. 
And  meadows,  with  their  glittering  streams — and  silver- 
scurrying  dace — 
Home,  what  a  perfect  place! 

E.  Wyndham  Tennant 


30  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR  AND   THE   PEACE 


ST.  OUEN  IN  PICARDY 

Gleams  of  English  orchards  dance 
Through  the  sunny  fields  of  France; 
Flowers  that  blow  at  Nedonchel 
Thrive  in  Gloucestershire  as  well; 
Children  sing  to  fleet  the  time 
What  they  deem  an  English  rhyme — 
"  Kiss  me  quick;  apres  la  guerre 
Promenade  en  Angleterre." 

English  hearts  are  gladdened  when 
Out  of  childhood's  lips  again 
Comes  the  lilt  of  English  song 
When  their  absence  has  been  long; 
Children  running  through  the  street 
Beating  time  with  merry  feet — 
"  Kiss  me  quick;  apres  la  guerre 
Promenade  en  Angleterre." 

But  to  hear  them  as  they  sing 
Brings  a  sudden  questioning; 
Here  the  children  play  and  roam — 
How's  my  little  one  at  home? 
In  St.  Ouen  the  simple  strain 
Takes  the  heart  with  hungry  pain — 
"Kiss  me  quick;  apres  la  guerre 
Promenade  en  Angleterre." 

Anonymous 

^  Reprinted  by  permission  from  London  Punch. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   WAR  3 1 


THE  PLACE 


Blossoms  as  old  as  May  I  scatter  here, 
And  a  blue  wave  I  lifted  from  the  stream. 
It  shall  not  know  when  winter  days  are  drear 
Or  March  is  hoarse  with  blowing.    But  a-dream 
The  laurel  boughs  shall  hold  a  canopy 
Peacefully  over  it  the  winter  long, 
Till  all  the  birds  are  back  from  oversea. 
And  April  rainbows  win  a  blackbird's  song. 

And  when  the  war  is  over  I  shall  take 
My  lute  a-down  to  it  and  sing  again 
Songs  of  the  whispering  things  amongst  the  brake, 
And  those  I  love  shall  know  them  by  their  strain. 
Their  airs  shall  be  the  blackbird's  twilight  song, 
Their  words  shall  be  all  flowers  with  fresh  dews  hoar. 
But  it  is  lonely  now  in  winter  long, 
And,  God!  to  hear  the  blackbird  sing  once  more. 

Francis  Ledwidge 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WHIMSICAL  HUMOR 

"Leur  gaiete  fait  peur." 

IV.  J.  Locke 


THE  QUESTION 

I  WONDER  if  the  old  cow  died  or  not. 
Gey  bad  she  was  the  night  I  left,  and  sick. 
Dick  reckoned  she  would  mend.  He  knows  a  lot- 
At  least  he  fancies  so  himself,  does  Dick. 

Dick  knows  a  lot.    But  maybe  I  did  wrong 
To  leave  the  cow  to  him,  and  come  away. 
Over  and  over  like  a  silly  song 
These  words  keep  bumming  in  my  head  all  day. 

And  all  I  think  of,  as  I  face  the  foe 
And  take  my  lucky  chance  of  being  shot, 
Is  this — that  if  I'm  hit,  I'll  never  know 
Till  Doomsday  if  the  old  cow  died  or  not. 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 


HIS  FATHER 

I  QUITE  forgot  to  put  the  spigot  in. 
It's  just  come  over  me.  .   .    .  And  it  is  queer 
To  think  he'll  not  care  if  we  lose  or  win 
And  yet  be  jumping-mad  about  that  beer. 

I  left  it  running  full.    He  must  have  said 

A  thing  or  two.    I'd  give  my  stripes  to  hear 

What  he  will  say  if  I'm  reported  dead 

Before  he  gets  me  told  about  that  beer! 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 
35 


36  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 


THE  TWA  WEELUMS 

I'm  Sairgint  Weelum  Henderson  frae  Pairth, 

That's  wha  I  am! 
There's  just  ae  regimint  in  a'  the  airth 

That's  worth  a  damn; 
An'  gin  the  bonniest  fechter  o'  the  lot 

Ye  seek  to  see, 
Him  that's  the  best — wfmur  ilka  man's  a  Scot- 

Speir  you  at  me! 

Gin  there's  a  hash  o'  Gairmans  pitten  oot 

By  aichts  an'  tens, 
That  Wully  Henderson's  been  thereaboot 

A'body  kens; 
Fegs-aye!     Yon  Weelum  that's  in  Gairmanie, 

He  hadna'  reckoned 
Wi'  Sairgint  Weelum  Henderson  an'  wi' 

The  Forty-Second! 


Yon  day  we  lichtit  on  the  shores  o'  France, 

The  lassies  standin'    . 
Trod  ilk  on  ither's  taes  to  get  the  chance 

To  see  us  landin'. 
I'he  besoms!     O  they  smiled  to  me — an'  yet 

They  couldna'  help  it. 
(MyseP,  I  just  was  thinkin'  foo  we'd  get 

They  Gairmans  skelpit.) 


PICTURES   OF   THE   WAR  37 

I'm  weaned  wi'  them,  for  it's  aye  the  same 

Whaure'er  we  gang, 
Our  Captain  thinks  we've  got  his  een  to  blame, 

But  man!  he's  wrang! 
I  winna  say  he's  no  as  smairt  a  lad 

As  ye  micht  see 
Atween  twa  Sawbiths — aye,  he's  no  sae  bad. 

But  he's  no  me! 

Weel,  let  the  limmers  bide;  their  bonnie  lips 

Are  fine  an'  reid. 
But  me  an'  Weelum's  got  to  get  to  grips 

Afore  we're  deid. 
An'  gin  he  thinks  he  hasna'  met  his  match 

He'll  sune  be  wiser — 
Here's  to  mysel'!     Here's  to  the  auld  Black  Watch! 

An'  damn  the  Kaiser! 

Violet  Jacob 


"FORM  FOURS" 

A  Volunteer's  Nightmare 

If  you're  Volunteer  Artist  or  Athlete,  or  if  you  defend 

the  Home, 
You  sacrifice  "  Ease  "  for  "  Attention,"  and  march  like 

a  metronome; 
But  of  all   elementary   movements  you  learn   in  your 

Volunteer  Corps 
The  one  that  is  really  perplexing  is  known  as  the  Form- 
,  ing  of  Fours. 


38  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

Imagine  us  numbered  off  from  the  right:   the  Sergeant 

faces  the  squad, 
And  says  that  the  odd  files  do  not  move — I  never  seem 

to  be  odd! 
And  then  his  instructions  run  like  this  (very  simple  in 

black  and  white) — 
"  A  pace  to  the  rear  with  the  left  foot,  and  one  to  the 

right  with  the  right." 

Of  course,  if  you  don't  think  deeply,  you  do  it  without 
a  hitch; 

You  have  only  to  know  your  right  and  left,  and  re- 
member which  is  which; 

But  as  soon  as  you  try  to  be  careful,  you  get  in  the 
deuce  of  a  plight, 

With  "  a  pace  to  the  right  with  the  left  foot,  and  one 
to  the  rear  with  the  right!  " 

Besides,  when  you're  thoroughly  muddled  the  Sergeant 

doubles  your  doubt 
By  saying  that  rules  reverse  themselves,  as  soon  as  you're 

*'  turned  about "; 
So  round  you  go  on  your  right  heel,  and  practice  until 

you  are  deft 
At  "  a  pace  to  the  front  with  the  right  foot,  and  one  to 

the  left  with  the  left." 

In  my  dreams  the  Sergeant,  the  Kaiser,  and  Kipling  mix 

my  feet, 
Saying  "  East  is  Left,  and  Right  is  Might,  and  never  the 

twain  shall  meet  I  " 


PICTURES    OF    THE   WAR  39 

In  my  nightmare  squad  all  files  are  odd,  and  their  Fours 

are  horribly  queer, 
With  "  a  pace  to  the  left  with  the  front  foot,  and  one 

to  the  right  with  the  rear!  " 

Frank  Sidgwick 


THE  TOY  BAND 

{A  Song  of  the  Great  Retreat) 

Dreary  lay  the  long  road,  dreary  lay  the  town, 

Lights  out  and  never  a  glint  o'  moon: 
Weary  lay  the  stragglers,  half  a  thousand  down, 

Sad  sighed  the  weary  big  Dragoon. 
''Oh!  if  I'd  a  drum  here  to  make  them  take  the  road 
again, 

Oh!  if  I'd  a  fife  to  wheedle,  Come,  boys,  come! 
You  that  mean  to  fight  it  out,  wake  and  take  your  load 
again. 

Fall  in!     Fall  in!     Follow  the  fife  and  drum! 

''  Hey,  but  here's  a  toy  shop;  here's  a  drum  for  me, 

Penny  whistles  too  to  play  the  tune! 
Half  a  thousand  dead  men  soon  shall  hear  and  see 

We're  a  band!  "  said  the  weary  big  Dragoon. 
"  Rubadub!    Rubadub!     Wake  and  take  the  road  again, 

Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee,  Come,  boys,  come! 
You  that  mean  to  fight  it  out,  wake  and  take  your  load 
again. 

Fall  in!     Fall  in!     Follow  the  fife  and  drum!  " 


40  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

Cheerly  goes  the  dark  road,  cheerly  goes  the  night, 

Cheer ly  goes  the  blood  to  keep  the  beat: 
Half  a  thousand  dead  men  marching  on  to  fight 

With  a  little  penny  drum  to  lift  their  feet. 
Rubadub!     Rubadub!     Wake  and  take  the  road  again, 

Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee,  Come,  boys,  come! 
You  that  mean  to  fight  it  out,  wake  and  take  your  load 
again, 

Fall  in!     Fall  in!     Follow  the  fife  and  drum! 

As  long  as  there's  an  Englishman  to  ask  a  tale  of  me, 

As  long  as  I  can  tell  the  tale  aright. 
We'll  not  forget  the  penny  whistle's  wheedle-deedle-dee 

And  the  big  Dragoon  a-beating  down  the  night, 
Rubadub!     Rubadub!     Wake  and  take  the  road  again, 

Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee,  Come,  boys,  come! 
You  that  mean  to  fight  it  out,  wake  and  take  your  load 
again, 

Fall  in!     Fall  in!     Follow  the  fife  and  drum! 

Henry  Newbolt 

BRITISH  MERCHANT  SERVICE,  1915 

Oh,  down  by  Millwall  Basin  as  I  went  the  other  day, 
I  met  a  skipper  that  I  knew,  and  to  him  I  did  say: 
"  Now  what's  the  cargo.  Captain,  that  brings  you  up 
this  way?  " 

"  Oh,  I've  been  up  and  down  (said  he)  and  round  about 

also  .    .    . 
From  Sydney  to  the  Skagerack,  and  Kiel  to  Callao  .   .   . 
With  a  leaking  steam-pipe  all  the  way  to  Californ-i-o  .  .  . 


PICTURES   OF   THE   WAR  4I 

"  With  pots  and  pans  and  ivory  fans  and  every  kind  of 

thing, 
Rails  and  nails  and  cotton  bales,  and  sewer  pipes  and 

string  .   .   . 
But  now  I'm  through  with  cargoes,  and  I'm  here  to  serve 

the  King! 

"  And  if  it's  sweeping  mines  (to  which  my  fancy  some- 
what leans) 

Or  hanging  out  with  booby-traps  for  the  skulking  sub- 
marines, 

I'm  here  to  do  my  blooming  best  and  give  the  beggars 
beans! 

"  A  rough  job  and  a  tough  job  is  the  best  job  for  me. 
And  what  or  where  I  don't  much  care,  I'll  take  what  it 

may  be. 
For   a    tight   place   is    the   right   place   when  it's    foul 

weather  at  sea!  " 

•  ••••• 

There's  not  a  port  he  does  n't  know  from  Melbourne  to 

New  York; 
He's  as  hard  as  a  lump  of  harness  beef,  and  as  salt  as 

pickled  pork   .    .    . 
And  he'll  stand  by  a  wreck  in  a  murdering  gale  and 

count  it  part  of  his  work! 

He's  the  terror  of  the  fo'c's'le  when  he  heals  its  various 

ills 
With  turpentine  and  mustard  leaves,  and  poultices  and 

pills  .   .   . 
But  he  knows  the  sea  like  the  palm  of  his  hand,  as  a 

shepherd  knows  the  hills. 


42  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

He'll  spin  you  yarns  from  dawn  to  dark — and  half  of 

'em  are  true! 
He  swears  in  a  score  of  languages,  and  maybe  talks  in 

two! 
And  .    .    .  he'll  lower  a  boat  in  a  hurricane  to  save  a 

drowning  crew. 

A  rough  job  or  a  tough  job — ^he's  handled  two  or  three — 
And  what  or  where  he  won't  much  care,  nor  ask  what 

the  risk  may  be  .    .    . 
For  a  tight  place  is  the  right  place  when  it's  wild  weather 

at  sea! 

Cicely  Fox  Smith 


A  FINGER  AND  A  HUGE,  THICK  THUMB 

(A  Ballad  of  the   Trenches) 

It  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock  by  the  sergeant's  watch ; 

The  moon  was  three  hours  high. 
The  long  grass  growing  on  the  parapet 

Rustled  as  the  wind  went  by. 
Hoar-frost  glistened  on  the  bayonets 

Of  the  rifles  in  the  rifle-rack. 
Suddenly  I  heard  a  faint,  v/eird  call 

And  an  answering  call  come  back. 

We  were  standing  in  the  corner  by  the  Maxim  gun, 
In  the  shadow,  and  the  sergeant  said. 

As  he  gripped  my  arm:  "  Did  you  hear  it?  " 
I  could  only  nod  my  head. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   WAR  43 

Looking  down  the  length  of  the  moonlit  trench, 

I  saw  the  sleeping  men 
Huddled  on  the  floor;  but  no  one  stirred. 

Silently  we  listened  again. 

A  second  time  it  came,  still  dim  and  strange, 

A  far  "  Halloo-0-0!     Halloo-0-0!  " 
I  would  n't  have  believed  such  a  ghostly  cry 

Could  sound  so  clearly,  too. 
The  sentries  standing  to  the  right  and  left 

Neither  spoke  nor  stirred. 
They  stood  like  stone.     Can  it  be,  I  thought, 

That  nobody  else  has  heard? 

Then  closer  at  hand,  ''Halloo-0-0!     Halloo-0-0!  " 

Again  the  answering  call. 
"Quick!  "  said  the  sergeant  as  he  pulled  me  down 

In  the  shadow,  close  to  the  wall. 
I  dropped  in  a  heap,  and  none  too  soon; 

For  scarcely  a  rifle-length  away, 
A  man  stood  silent  on  the  parados; 

His  face  was  a  ghastly  gray. 

He  carried  a  queer,  old  muzzle-loading  gun; 

The  bayonet  was  dim  with  rust. 
His  top-boots  were  muddy,  and  his  red  uniform 

Covered  with  blood  and  dust. 
He  waited  for  a  moment,  then  waved  his  hand, 

And  they  came  in  twos  and  threes: 
Englishmen,  Dutchmen,  French  cuirassiers, 

Highlanders  with  great  bare  knees; 


44  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

Pikemen,  archers  with  huge  crossbows, 

Lancers  and  grenadiers; 
Men  in  rusty  armor,  with  battle-dented  shields, 

With  axes  and  swords  and  spears. 
Great  blond  giants  with  long,  flowing  hair 

And  limbs  of  enormous  girth; 
Yellow  men  with  bludgeons,  black  men  with  knives. 

From  the  wild,  waste  lands  of  the  earth. 

The  one  with  the  queer,  old  muzzle-loading  gun 

Jumped  down  with  a  light,  quick  leap. 
He  was  head  and  shoulders  higher  than  the  parapet. 

Though  the  trench  was  six  feet  deep. 
The  sentries  stood  like  men  in  a  dream. 

With  their  faces  to  the  German  line. 
He  felt  of  their  arms,  their  bodies,  and  their  legs. 

But  they  made  no  sound  or  sign. 

He  beckoned  to  the  others,  and  three  jumped  in. 

I  was  shaking  like  a  man  with  a  chill; 
But  I  could  n't  help  smiling  when  the  sergeant  said 

Through  his  chattering  teeth:  "  K-k-k-keep  s-s-s- 
still!  " 
A  hairy-armed  giant,  with  rings  in  his  ears, 

Stood  looking  down  the  dugout  stair. 
Hands  on  his  knees.    Slowly  he  turned. 

And  saw  us  lying  there! 

With  a  huge  forefinger  and  a  huge,  thick  thumb 

He  felt  us  over,  limb  by  limb. 
The  two  of  us  together  would  not  have  made 

One  man  the  size  of  him. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   WAR  45 

I  could  see  his  scorn,  and  my  face  burned  hot, 
Though  my  body  was  cold  and  numb, 

When  he  spanned  my  chest  so  disdainfully 
With  only  a  finger  and  a  thumb. 

Suddenly  the  chatter  of  the  sergeant's  teeth 

Stopped.    He  was  angry,  too; 
And  he  whispered:  "  Are  you  game?   Get  the  Maxim 
gun!  " 

I  hugged  him.     "  It  will  scare  them  blue." 
Slowly,  very  slowly,  we  rose  to  our  feet; 

I  was  conscious  of  my  knocking  knees. 
The  murmur  of  their  voices  was  an  eery  sound 

Like  wind  in  wintry  trees. 

I  saw  them  staring  from  the  tail  of  my  eye 

As  the  tripod  legs  we  set. 
We  lifted  the  gun  and  clamped  it  on, 

With  the  muzzle  at  the  parapet. 
Nervously  I  pushed  in  the  tag  of  the  belt; 

The  sergeant  loaded  and  laid 
Quietly,  deftly;  the  click  of  the  lock 

Was  the  only  sound  he  made. 

"Ready!  "  he  nodded.    I  turned  my  head 

And  nearly  collapsed  with  fright. 
Four  of  them  were  standing  at  my  shoulder, 

The  others  to  the  left  and  right. 
Then,  "  Fire!  "  I  shouted,  and  the  gun  leaped  up 

With  a  roar  and  a  spurt  of  flame. 
The  sergeant  gripped  the  handles  while  the  belt  ran 
through. 

Never  stopping  to  correct  his  aim. 


46  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

Fearfully  I  turned,  then  jumped  to  my  feet, 

Forgetting  all  about  the  feed. 
They  were  running  like  the  wind  up  a  long,  steep 
hill. 

With  the  thumb-and-finger  man  in  the  lead! 
And  high  above  the  rattle  and  roar  of  the  gun 

I  heard  a  despairing  yell, 
As  Englishmen,  Dutchmen,  pikemen,  bowmen, 

Vanished  in  the  night,  pell-mell. 

The  men  who  were  sleeping  in  the  moonlit  trench 

Sat  up  and  rubbed  their  eyes; 
And  one  of  them  muttered  in  a  drowsy  voice: 

"  Wot  to  blazes  is  the  row,  you  guys?  " 
The  sergeant  said:  "That'll  do!     That'll  do!  " 

But  he  whispered  to  me:  "  Keep  mum!  " 
They  would  n't  have  believed  that  the  row  was  all 
about 

A  finger  and  a  huge,  thick  thumb. 

James  Norman  Hall 


THOMAS  OF  THE  LIGHT  HEART  ^ 

Facing  the  guns,  he  jokes  as  well 
As  any  Judge  upon  the  Bench; 

Between  the  crash  of  shell  and  shell 
His  laughter  rings  along  the  trench; 

He  seems  immensely  tickled  by  a 

Projectile  which  he  calls  a  "  Black  Maria." 

1  Reprinted  by  permission  from  London  Punch. 


PICTURES   OF   THE  WAR  47 

He  whistles  down  the  day-long  road, 

And,  when  the  chilly  shadows  fall 
And  heavier  hangs  the  weary  load, 

Is  he  down-hearted?  Not  at  all. 
'Tis  then  he  takes  a  light  and  airy 
View  of  the  tedious  route  to  Tipperary. 

His  songs  are  not  exactly  hymns; 

He  never  learned  them  in  the  choir; 
And  yet  they  brace  his  dragging  limbs 

Although  they  miss  the  sacred  fire; 
Although  his  choice  and  cherished  gems 
Do  not  include  "  The  Watch  upon  the  Thames." 

He  takes  to  fighting  as  a  game; 

He  does  no  talking,  through  his  hat, 
Of  holy  missions;  all  the  same 

He  has  his  faith — be  sure  of  that; 

He'll  not  disgrace  his  sporting  breed, 

Nor  play  what  isn't  cricket.    There's  his  creed. 

Owen  Seaman 
October,  igi4 


THE  FAUN  COMPLAINS 

They  give  me  aeroplanes 
Instead  of  birds  and  moths; 
Instead  of  sunny  fields 
They  give  me  mud-holes; 


48  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

And  for  my  day-long,  night-long  sacred  hush, 
(Flutter  of  leaves,  bee-murmurs  in  the  flowers, 
Ripe  seeded  grass  just  stirring  into  music) 
A  hush  wherein  one  seemed  to  hear 
The  invisible  wheels  of  burning  stars 
Echoing  upon  the  tiled  paths  of  heaven — 
For  this  they  give  me  noise, 
Harsh  clangors  of  breaking  metal. 
Abrupt  huge  bursts  of  flame. 

And  for  my  woodland  playmates, 
Dryads,  yellow  subtle  fauns. 
Naked  wanton  hamadryads, 
And  stealthy  water-girls 
Who  stole  my  honey  and  fruits 
When  I  lay  sleeping  by  their  pools — 
For  these  they  give  me  men. 
Odd,  loud-voiced,  fearsome,  men. 
Who  mock  my  little  horns  and  pointed  ears! 

Richard  Aldington 


ESCAPE 

(August  6,  igi6. — Officer  previously  reported  died  of  wounds, 
now  reported  wounded :  Robert  Graves,  Captain  R.,  Royal 
Welsh  Fusiliers.) 

.   .   .  But  I  was  dead,  an  hour  or  more. 

I  woke  when  I'd  already  passed  the  door 

That  Cerberus  guards,  and  half-way  down  the  road 

To  Lethe,  as  an  old  Greek  signpost  showed. 


PICTURES   OF   THE  WAR  49 

Above  me,  on  my  stretcher  swinging  by, 

I  saw  new  stars  in  the  subterrene  sky: 

A  Cross,  a  Rose  in  bloom,  a  Cage  with  bars, 

And  a  barbed  Arrow  feathered  in  fine  stars, 

I  felt  the  vapors  of  forgetfulness 

Float  in  my  nostrils.    Oh,  may  Heaven  bless 

Dear  Lady  Proserpine,  who  saw  me  wake, 

And,  stooping  over  me,  for  Henna's  sake 

Cleared  my  poor  buzzing  head  and  sent  me  back 

Breathless,  with  leaping  heart,  along  the  track. 

After  me  roared  and  clattered  angry  hosts 

Of  demons,  heroes,  and  policeman-ghosts. 

"Life!  life!     I  can't  be  dead!     I  won't  be  dead! 

Damned  if  I'll  die  for  anyone!  "  I  said  .   .    . 


Cerberus  stands  and  grins  above  me  now, 
Wearing  three  heads — lion,  and  lynx,  and  sow. 
"  Quick,  a  revolver!     But  my  Webley's  gone, 
Stolen!    ...  No  bombs  ...   no  knife  .    .    .  The 

crowd  swarms  on, 
Bellows,  hurls  stones.  .  .  .  Not  even  a  honeyed  sop  .  .  . 
Nothing.  .   .   .  Good  Cerberus!  .  .   .  Good  dog!  .  .  . 

but  stop! 
Stay!  ...  A  great  luminous  thought  .  .  .  I  do  believe 
There's  still  some  morphine  that  I  bought  on  leave." 
Then  swiftly  Cerberus'  wide  mouths  I  cram 
With  army  biscuit  smeared  with  ration  jam; 
And  sleep  lurks  in  the  luscious  plum  and  apple. 
He  crunches,  swallows,  stiffens,  seems  to  grapple 
With  the  all-powerful  poppy  .   .   .  then  a  snore, 


50  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

A  crash;  the  beast  blocks  up  the  corridor 
With  monstrous  hairy  carcase,  red  and  dun — 
Too  late!  for  I've  sped  through. 
O  Life!     O  Sun! 

Robert  Graves 


«  HATE  " 

"  I  was  glad  to  get  back  to  the  trenches  again 
Where  there's  more  of  a  'uman  feeling." 

"  London  Joe  " 


HATE 

Three  of  us  sat  on  the  firing-bench 

Watching  the  clouds  sail  by — 

Watching  the  grey  dawn  blowing  up 

Like  smoke  across  the  sky. 

And  I  thought,  as  I  listened  to  London  Joe 

Tell  of  his  leave  in  town, 

"  That's  good  vers  libre  with  a  Cockney  twang; 

I'll  remember  and  write  it  down." 

•  •  •  •  • 

When  I  went  'ome  on  furlough 

My  missus  says  to  me,  "  Joe, 

'Ow  many  'Uns  'ave  you  killed? 

Them  sneakin',  lyin'  'Uns!  " 

Bitter?    Not  'arf,  she  ain't! 

An'  they're  all  the  same  w'y  in  Lunnon. 

My  ole  mate  Bill,  who's  lame 
An'  couldn't  enlist  on  that  account, 
Stood  me  a  pint  of  ale 
At  the  "  Red  Lion."    Proper  stuff  it  was 
Arter  this  flat  French  beer. 
"Well,  'ere's  to  old  times!  "  says  Bill, 
Raisin'  'is  glass, 

"  An'  bad  luck  to  the  'Uns  you've  sent  belowl 
'Ow  many  you  think  you  did  for,  Joe?  " 
'E  arst  if  I'd  shot  and  seen  'em  fall, 
Wanted  the  de- tails  and  wanted  'em  all! 

53 


54  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

An'  there  was  my  old  boss  from  Balham, 

Give  me  a  quid,  which  I  took  wilHn'  enough, 

Altho'  I  made  a  show  o'  refusin', 

"That's  all  right,  Joe,  boy!     Glad  to  do  it! 

It  ain't  much,  but  it'll  'elp  you  to  'ave  a  pleasant  week. 

But  when  you  goes  back  to  the  trenches, 

I  wants  you  to  take  a  crack  at  the  'Uns  for  me! 

Git  me  a  German  for  every  penny  in  that  sovereign!  " 

'E  says, 

Smashin'  'is  fist  on  the  table 

An'  upsettin'  a  bottle  o'  ink. 

"Lay  'em  out!  "  'e  says: 

"  Now  tell  me — 'ow  many  you  killed,  abaht?  " 

Speakin'  o'  'ymns  o'  'ate. 

They  sing  'em  in  Lunnon,  I'm  tellin'  yer  straight! 

You  oughter  see  their  faces  when  they  arsts  yer  about 

the  'Uns! 
Lor'  lummy!     They  aint  arf  a  bloodthirsty  lot! 
An'  the  women  as  bad  as  the  men. 
I  was  glad  to  get  back  to  the  trenches  again 
Where  there's  more  of  a  'uman  feelin'. 
Now,  us  blokes  out  'ere, 

We  knows  as  old  Fritz  ain't  so  bad  as  'e's  painted 
(An'  likely  'e  knows  the  same  abaht  us). 
What  I  mean  is,  'e  ain't  no  worse'n  what  we  are, 
Take  'im  man  for  man. 
There's  good  an'  bad  on  both  sides. 
But  d'you  think  you  can  s'y  anything  good 
Abaht  a  German  when  yer  in  Lunnon? 
Strike  me  pink!     They  won't  believe  yer! 


PICTURES   OF   THE   WAR  55 

'E's  a  'Un,  whatever  that  is; 

Some  kind  o'  wild  beast,  I  reckon — 

A  cross  between  a  snake 

An'  one  o'  them  boars  with  'orns  on  their  noses 

Out  at  the  Zoo. 

One  night  at  the  "  Red  Lion," 
I  was  talkin'  abaht  the  time 

Nobby  Clark  got  'it  out  in  front  of  our  barbed  wire. 
Remember  'ow  we  didn'  find  'im  till  mornin', 
An'  the  stretcher-bearers  brought  'im  in? 
Broad  daylight  it  was, 
An'  not  a  German  firin'  a  shot 
Till  we  got  'im  back  in  the  trench? 
Well,  there  was  fifteen  or  twenty  in  the  pub, 
An'  not  one  of  'em  was  glad  old  Fritzie  acted  white! 
Wouldn'  that  give  yer  the  camel's  'ump? 
They'd  sooner  'ad  Nobby  an'  stretcher-bearers  killed, 
If  only  the  'Uns,  as  they  call  'em, 
'Ad  played  dirty  an'  fired  while  they  was  bringin' 
'im  in. 

Another  time  I  was  a-tellin'  'em 

'Ow  we  shout  back  and  forth  acrost  the  trenches 

When  the  lines  is  close  together 

An'  we  got  fed  up  with  pluggin'  at  each  other. 

An'  I  told  'em  about  the  place 

This  side  of  Messines,  where  we  was  only  twenty  yards 

apart, 
An'  'ow  they  chucked  us  over  some  o'  their  black 

bread, 


56  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR  AND   THE   PEACE 

Arter  we'd  throwed  'em  'arf  a  dozen  tins  o'  bully. 
Some  of  'em  didn't  believe  me,  an'  some  did. 
But  sour?    S'y!     'Ere!     They  was  ready  to  kill  me 
For  tryin'  to  make  out  that  Fritzie's  a  'uman  bein'l 

It's  a   funny   thing.     The   farther  yer  git   from  the 

trenches 
The  more  'ate  yer  finds; 
An'  by  the  time  yer  gits  to  Lunnon, 
Blimy!     They  could  bite  the  'eads  off  o'  nails 
If  they  was  made  in  Germany! 
I  reckon   they're  just  as  cheerful  an'  lovin'-like  in 

Berlin. 
Give  us  a  fag,  son.    I'm  clean  out. 

James  Norman  Hall 


THE  PLACARD 

"  Enemy's  Terrible  Losses  " — in  letters  of  red  on  white 
The  placard  flared  its  message  out  through  the  mist  and 

rain: 
Enemy's  terrible  losses — I  saw  the  figures  plain, 
But  their  greatness  had  no  meaning,  no  picture  to  serve 

my  sight; 
I  was  but  glad  when  I  read  them,  clear  in  the  dim  war- 
light, 
Thinking:  the  sooner  ended  the  more  we  have  maimed 
and  slain;   .    .   . 

But  later  when  sleep  forsook  me  the  placard  flashed  again, 
Burning  my  inward  vision  in  the  lonely  deep  of  night. 


PICTURES   OF   THE  WAR  57 

The  thousands  stood  no  longer  in  printed  figures  of  red — 
They  were  heaped  in  desolate  places,  who  heard  their 

country's  call, 
And  went  out  singing  to  battle,  and  now — lay  quiet  all. 
And  afar  in  steep-roofed  cities,  the  homes  of  the  enemy 

dead. 
Went  up  the  prayers  of  women  who  knew  not  yet  of 

their  fall, 
And  voices  of  other  women  who  wept  uncomforted. 

Damon 

GERMAN  PRISONERS  1 

When  first  I  saw  you  in  the  curious  street 

Like  some  platoon  of  soldier  ghosts  in  grey, 

My  mad  impulse  was  all  to  smite  and  slay. 

To  spit  upon  you — tread  you  'neath  my  feet. 

But  when  I  saw  how  each  sad  soul  did  greet 

My  gaze  with  no  sign  of  defiant  frown, 

How  from  tired  eyes  looked  spirits  broken  down, 

How  each  face  showed  the  pale  flag  of  defeat. 

And  doubt,  despair,  and  disillusionment. 

And  how  were  grievous  wounds  on  many  a  head, 

And  on  your  garb  red-faced  was  other  red, 

And  how  you  stooped  as  men  whose  strength  was  spent, 

I  knew  that  we  had  suffered  each  as  other. 

And  could  have  grasped  your  hand  and  cried,  ''  My 

brother!  " 

Joseph  Lee 

1  Taken  by  permission  from  Work-a-Day  Warriors  by 
Joseph  Lee,  published  by  E.  P.  Dutton  and  Company,  New 
York. 


58  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

TO  GERMANY 

You  are  blind  like  us.    Your  hurt  no  man  designed, 
And  no  man  claimed  the  conquest  of  your  land. 
But  gropers  both,  through  fields  of  thought  confined, 
We  stumble  and  we  do  not  understand. 
You  only  saw  your  future  bigly  planned, 
And  we  the  tapering  paths  of  our  own  mind. 
And  in  each  other's  dearest  ways  we  stand. 
And  hiss  and  hate.    And  the  blind  fight  the  blind. 
When  it  is  peace,  then  we  may  view  again 
With  new-won  eyes  each  other's  truer  form, 
And  wonder.     Grown  more  loving-kind  and  warm 
We'll  grasp  firm  hands  and  laugh  at  the  old  pain, 
When  it  is  peace.    But  until  peace,  the  storm. 
The  darkness  and  the  thunder  and  the  rain. 

Charles  Hamilton  Sprley 


BLIND  MAN'S  BATTLE 

These  enemies!    How  blind  their  aim. 

Directed  one  against  another! 

In  a  lightless  passion-flame, 

Each  blind  man  sees  his  blind  brother 

As  that  blind  devil  in  his  mind 

That  makes  him  and  his  brother  blind! 

E.  H.  Visiak 


BATTLE 

Impotent, 

How  impotent  is  all  this  clamor, 

This  destruction  and  contest    .    .    . 

Richard  Aldington 


BARRAGE  / 

Thunder, 

The  gallop  of  innumerable  Walkyrie  impetuous  for  battle, 
The  beating  of  vast  eagle  wings  above  Prometheus, 
The  contest  of  tall  barbaric  gods  smitten  by  the  hammer 

of  Thor, 
Pursuit!     Pursuit!     Pursuit! 
The  huge  black  dogs  of  hell 
Leaping,  full-mouthed,  in  murderous  pursuit! 

Richard  Aldington 

IN  THE  TRENCHES  II 

Impotent, 

How  impotent  is  all  this  clamor, 

This  destruction  and  contest  .    .    . 

Night  after  night  comes  the  moon 
Haughty  and  perfect; 
Night  after  night  the  Pleiades  sing 
And  Orion  swings  his  belt  across  the  sky. 
Night  after  night  the  frost 
Crumbles  the  hard  earth. 
Soon  the  spring  will  drop  flowers 
And  patient,  creeping  stalk  and  leaf 
Along  these  barren  lines 
Where  the  huge  rats  scuttle 
And  the  hawk  shrieks  to  the  carrion  crow, 

6i 


^> 


62  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

Can  you  stay  them  with  your  noise? 
Then  kill  winter  with  your  cannon, 
Hold  back  Orion  with  your  bayonets, 
And  crush  the  spring  leaf  with  your  armies! 

Richard  Aldington 


THE  TROOPS^ 

Dim,  gradual  thinning  of  the  shapeless  gloom 
Shudders  to  drizzling  daybreak  that  reveals 
Disconsolate  men  who  stamp  their  sodden  boots 
And  turn  dulled,  sunken  faces  to  the  sky 
Haggard  and  hopeless.  They,  who  have  beaten  down 
The  stale  despair  of  night,  must  now  renew 
Their  desolation  in  the  truce  of  dawn. 
Murdering  the  livid  hours  that  grope  for  peace. 

Yet  these,  who  cling  to  life  with  stubborn  hands, 
Can  grin  through  storm.s  of  death  and  find  a  gap 
In  the  clawed,  cruel  tangles  of  his  defence. 
They  march  from  safety,  and  the  bird-sung  joy 
Of  grass-green  thickets,  to  the  land  where  all 
Is  ruin,  and  nothing  blossoms  but  the  sky 
That  hastens  over  them  where  they  endure 
Sad,  smoking,  flat  horizons,  reeking  woods, 
And  foundered  trench-lines  volleying  doom  for  doom. 

1  Taken  by  permission  from  Counter-Attack,  by  Siegfried 
Sassoon,  copyrighted  by  E.  P.  Dutton  and  Company,  New 
York. 


PICTURES    OF    THE   WAR  63 

O  my  brave  brown  companions,  when  your  souls 
Flock  silently  away,  and  the  eyeless  dead 
Shame  the  wild  beast  of  battle  on  the  ridge, 
Death  will  stand  grieving  in  that  field  of  war 
Since  your  unvanquished  hardihood  is  spent. 
And  through  some  mooned  Valhalla  there  will  pass 
Battalions  and  battalions,  scarred  from  hell; 
The  unreturning  army  that  was  youth; 
The  legions  who  have  suffered  and  are  dust. 

Siegfried  Sassoort 


ATTACK^ 

At  dawn  the  ridge  emerges  massed  and  dun 
In  the  wild  purple  of  the  glowering  sun. 
Smouldering  through  spouts  of  drifting  smoke  that  shroud 
The  menacing  scarred  slope;  and,  one  by  one, 
Tanks  creep  and  topple  forward  to  the  wire. 
The  barrage  roars  and  lifts.    Then,  clumsily  bowed 
With  bombs  and  guns  and  shovels  and  battle-gear, 
Men  jostle  and  climb  to  meet  the  bristling  fire. 
Lines  of  grey,  muttering  faces,  masked  with  fear, 
They  leave  their  trenches,  going  over  the  top, 
While  time  ticks  blank  and  busy  on  their  wrists, 
And  hope,  with  furtive  eyes  and  grapoling  fists. 
Flounders  in  mud.    0  Jesu,  make  it  stop! 

Siegfried  Sassoon 

1  Taken  by  permission  from  Countcr-Attack.  by  Siegfried 
Sassoon,  copyrighted  by  E.  P.  Button  and  Company,  New 
York. 


64  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR  AND   THE   PEACE 

SHELL-SHOCK 

From  "  Our  Own  Spoon  River  "  ^ 

Harey  Joy,  private  in  Company  B, 

Rainbow  Division, 

Was  mustered  out  with  a  withered  leg. 

He  had  leapt  the  bar  on  Field  Day 

At  six  foot  two  with  that  leg; 

But  now  he'd  go  crutching  off 

To  sit  on  the  willow-bank  above  the  Dye  Works. 

Spoon  River  was  sorry  for  Harry. 

The  Army  Doctors  hadn't  found  anything  wrong: 

There  was  no  wound  from  toe  to  groin; 

And  electricity  made  it  wiggle  normally. 

But  it  kept  withering  and  withering, 

As  if  the  blood  about  his  heart 

Shrank  from  going  down  there  any  more, 

Or  as  if  the  leg  had  a  dream-soul  of  its  own 

That  was  sick  of  living  altogether. 

In  Spoon  River  or  anywhere  .  .  . 

That  was  the  case,  in  fact, 

As  finally  came  out  under  psychoanalysis  .  .  . 

It  seems  Harry  had  used  that  leg 

In  one  of  the  enemy  trenches 

To  stamp  on  something      .  . 

So,  when  the  Government  Expert  disengaged 
The  "  loathing-complex  "  in  sub-conscious  Harry, 

1 A    section    of    a    forthcoming    volume    of    poems,   From 
Senegal  to  Sunset  Hill. 


PICTURES   OF   THE  WAR  65 

And  re-arranged  his  thinking  till  he  saw 

The  leg  had  merely  done  its  duty,  then 

The  withering  stopped,  the  limb  grew  sound  again, 

And  Harry  was  fit  in  body  and  in  mind 

For  an  eventual  war  with  Mexico 

Or  England  or  Japan  .  .  . 

Spoon  River  was  hugely  astonished, 

But  very  happy  about  it. 

William  Ellery  Leonard 

QUO  VADITIS? 

"Where  do  ye  go, 

Pale  line  of  broken  men? — 

We  only  know 

To  die.     Could  we  die  twice,  we'd  die  again. 

"  Wherefore?  "—The  call 

Of  a  strange  voice — was  it  of  death  or  birth? — 

Came  to  us  all. 

To  all  of  us,  the  men  of  all  the  earth. 

"  And  to  what  end?  " 

We  ask  not,  but  we  see 

The  self-same  light  which  kindles  in  our  friend 

Shine  from  the  faces  of  our  enemy. 

"  Same  light,  same  doom! 

And  to  what  purpose?  " — Deep 

We  lie  in  the  same  womb, 

The  slain,  the  slain,  together  in  one  sleep. 

Margaret  Sackville 


66  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR  AND   THE   PEACE 


THE  OTHER  SIDE 

Being  extracts  from  a  letter  zvritten  by  Major  Average,  of 
the  Royal  Field  Artillery,  to  a  former  subaltern  of  his  bat- 
tery, now  in  London,  acknowledging  a  volume  of  the  latter's 
poems. 


Just  got  your  letter  and  the  poems.    Thanks. 

You  always  were  a  brainy  sort  of  chap, 

Though  pretty  useless  as  a  subaltern — 

Too  much  imagination,  not  enough 

Of  that  rare  quality,  sound  commonsense. 

And  so  you've  managed  to  get  on  the  Staff: 

Influence,  I  suppose:  a  Captain,  too! 

How  do  tabs  suit  you?    Are  they  blue  or  green? 

About  your  book.    I've  read  it  carefully, 

So  has  Macfaddyen  (you  remember  him, 

The  light-haired  chap,  who  joined  us  after  Loos?); 

And  candidly,  we  don't  think  much  of  it. 

The  piece  about  the  horses  isn't  bad; 

But  all  the  rest,  excuse  the  word,  are  tripe — 

The  same  old  tripe  we've  read  a  thousand  times. 

My  grief,  but  we're  fed  up  to  the  back-teeth 
With  war-books,  war-verse,  all  the  eye-wash  stuff 
That  seems  to  please  the  idiots  at  home. 
You  know  the  kind  of  thing,  or  used  to  know.. 

Lord,  if  I'd  half  your  brains,  I'd  write  a  book: 

None  of  your  sentimental  platitudes, 

But  something  real,  vital;  that  should  strip 


PICTURES   OF   THE   WAR  67 

The  glamour  from  this  outrage  we  call  war, 
Shewing  it  naked,  hideous,  stupid,  vile — 
One  vast  abomination.    So  that  they 
Who,  coming  after,  till  the  ransomed  fields 
Where  our  lean  corpses  rotted  in  the  ooze, 
Reading  my  written  words  should  understand 
This  stark  stupendous  horror,  visualize 
The  unutterable  foulness  of  it  all  .    .    , 

I'd  shew  them,  not  your  glamorous  "  glorious  game," 

Which  men  play  "  jesting  "  "  for  their  honour's  sake  " — 

(A  kind  of  Military  Tournament, 

With  just  a  hint  of  danger — bound  in  cloth!)  — 

But  War, — as  war  is  now  and  always  was: 

A  dirty  loathsome,  servile  murder-job: — 

Men,  lousy,  sleepless,  ulcerous,  afraid, 

Toiling  their  hearts  out  in  the  pulling  slime 

That  wrenches  gum-boots  down  from  bleeding  heel 

And  cakes  in  itching  arm-pits,  navel,  ears: 

Men  stunned  to  brainlessness,  and  gibbering: 

Men  driving  men  to  death  and  worse  than  death: 

Men  maimed  and  blinded:  men  against  machines — 

Flesh  versus  iron,  concrete,  flame  and  wire: 

Men  choking  out  their  souls  in  poison-gas: 

Men  squelched  into  the  slime  by  trampling  feet: 

Men,  disemboweled  by  guns  five  miles  away, 

Cursing,  with  their  last  breath,  the  living  God 

Because  He  made  them,  in  His  image,  men,  .  .  . 

•  ••••• 

So — were  your  talent  mine — I'd  write  of  war 
For  those  who,  coming  after,  know  it  not. 


68  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

And  if  posterity  should  ask  of  me 

What  high,  what  base  emotions  keyed  weak  flesh 

To  face  such  torments,  I  would  answer:  "  You! 

Not  for  themselves,  O  daughters,  grandsons,  sons, 

Your  tortured  forebears  wrought  this  miracle; 

Not  for  themselves,  accomplished  utterly 

This  loathiest  task  of  murderous  servitude; 

But  just  because  they  realized  that  thus, 

And  only  thus,  by  sacrifice,  might  they 

Secure  a  world  worth  living  in — for  you  "... 

Good-night,  my  soldier-poet.    Dormez  bien! 

Gilb-ert  Frankau 
The  Old  Barn,  igi6. 


FIELD  AMBULANCE  IN  RETREAT 

Via  Dolorosa,  Via  Sacra 

I 

A  STRAIGHT  flagged  road,  laid  on  the  rough  earth, 
A  causeway  of  stone  from  beautiful  city  to  city. 
Between  the  tall  trees,  the  slender,  delicate  trees, 
Through  the  flat  green  land,  by  plots  of  flowers,  by  black 
canals  thick  with  heat. 

n 

The  road-makers  made  it  well 

Of  fine  stone,  strong  for  the  feet  of  the  oxen  and  of  the 

great  Flemish  horses,  - 
And  for  the  high  wagons  piled  with  corn  from  the  harvest. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   WAR  69 

And  the  laborers  are  few; 

They  and  their  quiet  oxen  stand  aside  and  wait 

By  the  long  road  loud  with  the  passing  of  the  guns,  the 

rush  of  armored  cars,  and  the  tramp  of  an  army  on 

the  march  forward  to  battle; 
And,  where  the  piled  corn-wagons  went,  our  dripping 

Ambulance  carries  home 
Its  red  and  white  harvest  from  the  fields. 

Ill 

The  straight  flagged  road  breaks  into  dust,  into  a  thin 

white  cloud, 
About   the  feet  of  a  regiment  driven  back  league  by 

league, 
Rifles  at  trail,  and  standards  wrapped  in  black  funeral 

cloths.     Unhasting,  proud  in  retreat, 
They  smile  as  the  Red  Cross  Ambulance  rushes  by. 
(You  know  nothing  of  beauty  and  of  desolation  who 

have  not  seen 
That  smile  of  an  army  in  retreat.) 
They  go:  and  our  shining,  beckoning  danger  goes  with 

them, 
And  our  joy  in  the  harvests  that  we  gathered  in  at  night- 
fall in  the  fields; 
And  like  an  unloved  hand  laid  on  a  beating  heart 
Our  safety  weighs  us  down. 

Safety  hard  and  strange;  stranger  and  yet  more  hard 
As,  league  after  dying  league,   the  beautiful,   desolate 

Land 
Falls  back  from  the  intolerable  speed  of  an  Ambulance 

in  retreat 
On  the  sacred,  dolorous  Way.  ji/^y  Sinclair 


70  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR  AND   THE   PEACE 

THE  REFUGEES 

Past  the  marching  men,  where  the  great  road  runs, 

Out  of  burning  Ypres  three  pale  women  came; 
One  was  a  widow  (listen  to  the  guns!) — 

She  wheeled  a  heaped-up  barrow.    One  walked  lame 
And  dragged  two  little  children  at  her  side, 

Tired  and  coughing  with  the  dust.    The  third 
Nestled  a  dead  child  on  her  breast  and  tried 

To  suckle  him.     They  never  spoke  a  word.   .    .    . 
So  they  came  down  along  the  great  Ypres  road. 

A  soldier  stayed  his  mirth  to  watch  them  pass, 
Turned  and  in  silence  helped  them  with  their  load, 

And  led  them  to  a  field  and  gave  them  bread.  .   .   . 
I  saw  them  hide  their  faces  in  the  grass 

And  cry,  as  women  cried  when  Christ  was  dead. 

William  G.  Shakespeare 


THE  WAR  SPIRIT 

This   is  the  Dark  Immortal's   hour; 
His  victory,  whoever  fail. 

A.  E. 


THE  PIED  PIPER 

"  Never  before  have  four  hundred  million  rats  followed  the 
lure  of  the  shrill  pipe  of  the  rat-catcher." 

Nicolai,  Biology  of  War 

The  huge  Pied  Piper,  in  a  giant  dance, 
Began  his  piping  on  the  fields  of  France. 
The  huge  Pied  Piper,  with  a  fife  of  steel, 
Danced  through  the  nations,  toe  and  heel. 
Four  crazed  years,  under  winds  and  the  moon, 
The  Millions  followed  in  a  jigging  rigadoon. 

For  his  legs  were  hosed  in  striped  bands. 
And  his  sleeves  were  striped  to  the  fingering  hands, 
And  his  cape  was  striped  to  his  piping  throat. 
And  the  striped  cap  fluttered  to  step  and  note  .   .   . 
Stripes  up  and  down,  and  left  and  right  .    .    . 
Red,  green,  yellow,  black,  blue,  white   .    .    . 
Speckled  between  with  star  and  crest — 
But  the  red  stripes  0!  they  outnumbered  the  rest. 
And  when  failed  the  lure  of  his  garments  pied. 
He  juggled  new  bunting  from  his  vest  inside. 
So  four  crazed  years,  under  winds  and  the  moon, 
The  Millions  followed  in  a  jigging  rigadoon. 

With  a  fife  of  steel  to  puckered  lips, 
And  two  cheeks  puffing  for  his  finger-tips. 
He  shrilled  each  tune  of  the  lure  of  war. 
And  danced  each  measure  of  his  repertoire: 

73 


74  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

He  piped  and  he  jigged  of  fear  and  hate, 

Of  love  of  country  and  glory  of  state; 

And  he  piped  of  god  and  he  piped  of  man — 

This  giant  Jester,  this  Charlatan. 

And  for  those  who  loathed  his  piping  shrill 

He  piped  a  tune  more  alluring  still: 

"  Then  hurry  to  my  piping,  more  than  ever, 

To  end  my  piping,  now  or  never!  " 

And  four  crazed  years,  under  winds  and  the  moon, 

The  Millions  followed  in  a  jigging  rigadoon. 

And  the  few  still  slack,  as  he  flung  pied  cape, 
And  the  few  still  slack,  as  he  piped  his  jape, 
O  the  few  still  slack,  as  each  million  reels. 
Jigging  to  the  river,  behind  his  heels, 
They  whipped  or  they  hanged  to  bar  or  tree, 
And  passed  with  the  Piper  down  the  lea  .    .    . 

To  a  red,  red  river,  all  the  host, — 
And  the  Piper  walked,  like  a  shadow  or  ghost  .   .  . 
And  the  Piper  walked,  like  Christ  on  the  sea 
In  the  sunset-storm  of  Galilee   .    .    . 
And  he  danced  on  the  waters,  to  his  latest  tune. 
And  the  millions  perished  in  a  jigging  rigadoon. 

William  Ellery  Leonard 

MISERICORDIA 

He  earned  his  bread  by  making  wooden  soldiers, 

With  beautiful  golden  instruments. 

Riding  dapple-grey  horses. 

But  when  he  heard  the  fanfare  of  trumpets 


THE   WAR   SPIRIT  7$ 

And  the  long  rattle  of  drums 

As  the  army  marched  out  of  the  city, 

He  took  all  his  soldiers 

And  burned  them  in  the  grate; 

And  that  night  he  fashioned  a  ballet-dancer 

Out  of  tinted  tissue-paper, 

And  the  next  day  he  started  to  carve  a  Pieta 

On  the  steel  hilt 

Of  a  cavalry  sword. 

Amy  Lowell 


NAPOLEON'S  TOMB 

Through  the  great  doors,  where  Paris  flowed  incessant, 

Fell  certain  dimness,  as  of  some  poised  hour. 

Caught  from  the  ashes  of  the  Infinite 

And  prisoned  there  in  solemn  purple  state, 

To  make  illusion  for  dead  majesty! 

A  dusk  of  greatness,  such  as  well  might  brood 

Beneath  the  wings  of  Destiny's  proud  day; 

A  calm,  immortal  twilight  mantling  up 

To  the  great  dome,  where  painted  triumph  rides 

High  o'er  the  dust  that  once  bestrode  it  all — 

Nor  ever  fame  had  fairer  firmament! 

It  was  as  though  Ambition  still  should  live 

In  marble  over  him;  as  though  his  dream — 

From  whose  high  tower  and  colored  casements  round 

He,  with  a  royal  thievery  in  his  eye, 

Did  look  upon  the  apple  of  a  world — 

Should  take  this  shape,  and  being  clothed  with  walls, 


76  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR  AND   THE   PEACE 

Stand,  in  such  permanence  as  matter  gives, 
To  house  his  glory  through  the  centuries. 

Then  I  went  in,  with  Paris  pressing  slow, 
And  saw  the  long  blue  shadows  folding  down 
Upon  the  casket  of  the  Emperor. 
A  soldier  in  a  faded  uniform 
Stood  close  beside  me.    He  was  one  of  those 
Who  die  and  leave  no  lament  on  the  wind  .    .    . 
And  straightway  gazing  on  him  I  beheld 
Not  death's  magnificence;  not  fame's  hushed  tomb- 
But  grim  Oblivion,  and  the  fields  of  France! 
And  on  some  nameless  hillside,  where  the  night 
Sets  out  wild  flaming  candles  for  the  dead, 
Innumerable  corpses  palely  sprawled 
Beneath  the  silent,  cold,  anonymous  stars. 

Dana  Burnet 
Paris,  19 18 

GODS  OF  WAR 

Fate  wafts  us  from  the  pygmies'  shore: 

We  swim  beneath  the  epic  skies: 

A  Rome  and  Carthage  war  once  more, 

And  wider  empires  are  the  prize; 

Where  the  beaked  galleys  clashed,  lo,  these 

Our  iron  dragons  of  the  seas! 

High  o'er  the  cloudy  battle  sweep 
The  winged  chariots  in  their  flight. 
The  steely  creatures  of  the  deep 
Cleave  the  dark  waters'  ancient  night. 


THE   WAR   SPIRIT  77 

Below,  above,  in  wave,  in  air 

New  worlds  for  conquest  everywhere. 

More  terrible  than  spear  or  sword 
Those  stars  that  burst  with  fiery  breath: 
More  loud  the  battle  cries  are  poured 
Along  a  hundred  leagues  of  death. 
So  do  they  fight.    How  have  ye  warred, 
Defeated  Armies  of  the  Lord? 

This  is  the  Dark  Immortal's  hour; 

His  victory,  whoever  fail; 

His  prophets  have  not  lost  their  power: 

Caesar  and  Attila  prevail. 

These  are  your  legions  still,  proud  ghosts, 

These  myriad  embattled  hosts. 

How  wanes  Thine  empire,  Prince  of  Peacel 

With  the  fleet  circling  of  the  suns 

The  ancient  gods  their  power  increase. 

Lo,  how  Thine  own  anointed  ones 

Do  pour  upon  the  warring  bands 

The  devil's  blessings  from  their  hands. 

Who  dreamed  a  dream  'mid  outcasts  born 
Could  overbrow  the  pride  of  kings? 
They  pour  on  Christ  the  ancient  scorn. 
His  Dove  its  gold  and  silver  wings 
Has  spread.    Perhaps  it  nests  in  flame 
In  outcasts  who  abjure  His  name. 


78  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR  AND   THE   PEACE 

Choose  ye  your  rightful  gods,  nor  pay 

Lip  reverence  that  the  heart  denies, 

O  Nations!     Is  not  Zeus  to-day, 

The  thunderer  from  the  epic  skies. 

More  than  the  Prince  of  Peace?    Is  Thor 

Not  nobler  for  a  world  at  war? 

They  fit  the  dreams  of  power  we  hold, 
Those  gods  whose  names  are  with  us  still. 
Men  in  their  image  made  of  old 
The  high  companions  of  their  will. 
Who  seek  an  airy  empire's  pride. 
Would  they  pray  to  the  Crucified? 

O  outcast  Christ,  it  was  too  soon 
For  flags  of  battle  to  be  furled 
While  life  was  yet  at  the  hot  noon. 
Come  in  the  twilight  of  the  world: 
Its  kings  may  greet  Thee  without  scorn 
And  crown  Thee  then  without  a  thorn. 

A.  B. 


Ill 

THE  SUPREME  SACRIFICE 

Greater  Love  hath  no  man  than  this  .  . 


«  ALL  THE  HLLLS  AND  VALES  ALONG  " 

All  the  hills  and  vales  along 
Earth  is  bursting  into  song, 
And  the  singers  are  the  chaps 
Who  are  going  to  die  perhaps. 

0  sing,  marching  men, 

Till  the  valleys  ring  again. 

Give  your  gladness  to  earth's  keeping, 

So  be  glad,  when  you  are  sleeping. 

Cast  away  regret  and  rue, 
Think  what  you  are  marching  to. 
Little  live,  great  pass. 
Jesus  Christ  and  Barabbas 
Were  found  the  same  day. 
This  died,  that  went  his  way. 

So  sing  with  joyful  breath. 

For  why,  you  are  going  to  death. 

Teeming  earth  will  surely  store 

All  the  gladness  that  you  pour. 

Earth  that  never  doubts  nor  fears. 
Earth  that  knows  of  death,  not  tears, 
Earth  that  bore  with  joyful  ease 
Hemlock  for  Socrates, 
Earth  that  blossomed  and  was  glad 
'Neath  the  cross  that  Christ  had, 
8i 


82  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

Shall  rejoice  and  blossom  too 
When  the  bullet  reaches  you. 

Wherefore,  men  marching 

On  the  road  to  death,  sing! 

Pour  your  gladness  on  earth's  head, 

So  be  merry,  so  be  dead. 

From  the  hills  and  valleys  earth 
Shouts  back  the  sound  of  mirth, 
Tramp  of  feet  and  lilt  of  song 
Ringing  all  the  road  along. 
All  the  music  of  their  going, 
Ringing,  swinging,  glad  song- throwing, 
Earth  will  echo  still,  when  foot 
Lies  numb  and  voice  mute. 
On,  marching  men,  on 
To  the  gates  of  death  with  song. 
Sow  your  gladness  for  earth's  reaping, 
So  you  may  be  glad,  though  sleeping. 
Strew  your  gladness  on  earth's  bed. 
So  be  merry,  so  be  dead. 

Charles  Hamilton  Sorley 


INTO  BATTLE 

The  naked  earth  is  warm  with  Spring, 
And  with  green  grass  and  bursting  trees 

Leans  to  the  sun's  gaze  glorying, 
And  quivers  in  the  sunny  breeze; 


THE   SUPREME   SACRIFICE  83 

And  Life  is  Color  and  Warmth  and  Light, 

And  a  striving  evermore  for  these; 
And  he  is  dead  who  will  not  fight; 

And  who  dies  fighting  has  increase. 

The  fighting  man  shall  from  the  sun 

Take  warmth,  and  life  from  the  glowing  earth; 

Speed  with  the  light-foot  winds  to  run, 
And  with  the  trees  to  newer  birth; 

And  find,  when  fighting  shall  be  done, 
Great  rest,  and  fullness  after  dearth. 

All  the  bright  company  of  Heaven 
Hold  him  in  their  high  comradeship, 

The  Dog-Star  and  the  Sisters  Seven, 
Orion's  Belt  and  sworded  hip. 

The  woodland  trees  that  stand  together, 
They  stand  to  him  each  one  a  friend; 

They  gently  speak  in  the  windy  weather; 
They  guide  to  valley  and  ridges'  end. 

The  kestrel  hovering  by  day. 

And  the  little  owls  that  call  by  night, 

Bid  him  be  swift  and  keen  as  they, 
As  keen  of  ear,  as  swift  of  sight. 

The  blackbird  sings  to  him,  "  Brother,  brother. 
If  this  be  the  last  song  you  shall  sing. 

Sing  well,  for  you  may  not  sing  another ; 
Brother,  sing." 


84  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

In  dreary  doubtful  waiting  hours, 
Before  the  brazen  frenzy  starts, 

The  horses  show  him  nobler  powers; 
O  patient  eyes,  courageous  hearts! 

And  when  the  burning  moment  breaks, 
And  all  things  else  are  out  of  mind. 

And  only  Joy-of-Battle  takes 

Him  by  the  throat,  and  makes  him  blind, 

Through  joy  and  blindness  he  shall  know, 
Not  caring  much  to  know,  that  still 

Nor  lead  nor  steel  shall  reach  him,  so 
That  it  be  not  the  Destined  Will. 

The  thundering  line  of  battle  stands. 
And  in  the  air  Death  moans  and  sings; 

But  Day  shall  clasp  him  with  strong  hands, 

And  Night  shall  fold  him  in  soft  wings. 

Julian  Grenfell 
Flanders,  April,  191 5. 

NEARER 

Nearer  and  ever  nearer.  .   .   . 
My  body,  tired  but  tense, 
Hovers  'twixt  vague  pleasure 
And  tremulous  confidence. 

Arms  to  have  and  use  them 
And  a  soul  to  be  made 
Worthy  if  not  worthy; 
If  afraid,  unafraid. 


THE   SUPREME   SACRIFICE  85 

To  endure  for  a  little, 
To  endure  and  have  done; 
Men  I  love  about  me, 
Over  me  the  sun! 

And  should  at  last  suddenly- 
Fly  the  speeding  death, 
The  four  great  quarters  of  heaven 
Receive  this  little  breath. 

Robert  Nichols 


THE  BUGLER 

(Written  in  a  German  prison  camp) 

God  dreamed  a  man; 
Then,  having  firmly  shut 
Life,  like  a  precious  metal  in  his  fist, 
Withdrew,  His  labour  done.     Thus  did  begin 
Our  various  divinity  and  sin — 
For  some  to  ploughshares  did  the  metal  twist, 
And  others — dreaming  Empires — straightway  cut 
Crowns  for  their  aching  foreheads.    Others  beat 
Long  nails  and  heavy  hammers  for  the  feet 
Of  their  forgotten  Lord.     (Who  dare  to  boast 
That  he  is  guiltless?)     Others  coined  it:  most 
Did  with  it — simply  nothing.     (Here  again 
Who  cries  his  innocence?)     Yet  doth  remain 
Metal  unmarred,  to  each  man  more  or  less, 
Whereof  to  fashion  perfect  loveliness. 


86  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

For  me,  I  do  but  bear  within  my  hand 

(For  sake  of  Him,  our  Lord,  now  long  forsaken) 

A  simple  bugle  such  as  may  awaken 

With  one  high  morning  note  a  drowsing  man: 

That  wheresoe'er  within  my  motherland 

The  sound  may  come,  't  will  echo  far  and  wide, 

Like  pipes  of  battle  calling  up  a  clan, 

Trumpeting  men  through  beauty  to  God's  side. 

F.  W.  Harvey 

THE  LAST  POST 

{June,  1916) 

The  bugler  sent  a  call  of  high  romance — 

Lights  out!    Lights  out! — to  the  deserted  square: 

On  the  thin  brazen  notes  he  threw  a  prayer. 

God,  if  it's  this  for  me  next  time  in  France, 

Spare  me  the  phantom  bugle  as  I  lie 

Dead  in  the  gas  and  smoke  and  roar  of  guns, 

Dead  in  a  row  with  the  other  shattered  ones, 

Lying  so  stiff  and  still  under  the  sky — 

Jolly  young  Fusiliers,  too  good  to  die. 

The  music  ceased,  and  the  red  sunset  flare 

Was  blood  about  his  head  as  he  stood  there. 

Robert  Graves 

MORITURI  TE  SALUTANT 

In  this  last  hour,  before  the  bugles  blare 
The  summons  of  the  dawn,  we  turn  again 
To  you,  dear  country,  you  whom  unaware 


THE   SUPREME   SACRIFICE  87 

Through  summer  years  of  idle  selfishness 

We  still  have  loved — who  loved  us  none  the  less, 

Knowing  the  destined  hour  would  find  us  men. 

O  thrill  and  laughter  of  the  busy  town! 

O  flower-valleys,  trees  against  the  skies, 

Wild  moor  and  woodland,  glade  and  sweeping  down, — 

O  land  of  our  desire! — like  men  asleep 

We  have  let  pass  the  years,  nor  felt  you  creep 

So  close  into  our  hearts'  dear  sanctities. 

We  have  been  dreamers;  but  our  dreams  are  cast 
Henceforward  in  a  more  heroic  mould; 
We  have  kept  faith  with  our  immortal  past. 
Knights,  we  have  found  the  lady  of  our  love; 
Minstrels,  have  heard  great  harmonies,  above 
The  lyrics  that  enraptured  us  of  old. 

The  dawn's  aglow  with  lustre  of  the  sun  .   .   . 
O  love,  O  burning  passion,  that  has  made 
Our  day  illustrious  till  its  hours  are  done, — 
Fire  our  dull  hearts,  that  in  cur  sun's  eclipse, 
When  Death  stoops  low  to  kiss  us  on  the  lips, 
He  still  may  find  us  singing  unafraid! 

One  thing  we  know,  that  love  so  greatly  spent 
Dies  not  when  lovers  die: — from  hand  to  hand 
We  pass  the  torch  and  perish,  well  content 
If  in  dark  years  to  come  our  countrymen 
Feel  the  divine  flame  leap  in  them  again, 
And  so  remember  us,  and  understand. 

P.  H.  B.  Lyon 


88  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 


A  PETITION 

All  that  a  man  might  ask,  thou  hast  given  me,  England, 
Birth-right  and  happy  childhood's  long  heart's-ease, 

And  love  whose  range  is  deep  beyond  all  sounding 
And  wider  than  all  seas. 

A  heart  to  front  the  world  and  find  God  in  it, 
Eyes  blind  enow,  but  not  too  blind  to  see 

The  lovely  things  behind  the  dross  and  darkness, 
And  lovelier  things  to  be. 

And  friends  whose  loyalty  time  nor  death  shall  weaken, 
And  quenchless  hope  and  laughter's  golden  store; 

All  that  a  man  might  ask  thou  hast  given  me,  England, 
Yet  grant  thou  one  thing  more: 

That  now  when  envious  foes  would  spoil  thy  splendour, 

Unversed  in  arms,  a  dreamer  such  as  I 
May  in  thy  ranks  be  deemed  not  all  unworthy, 

England,  for  thee  to  die. 

R.  E.  Vernede 


DULCE  ET  DECORUM  EST 

Bent  double,  like  old  beggars  under  sacks, 
Knock-kneed,  coughing  like  hags,  we  cursed  through 

sludge. 
Till  on  the  haunting  flare  we  turned  our  backs, 
And  towards  our  distant  rest  began  to  trudge. 


THE   SUPREME   SACRIFICE  89 

Men  marched  asleep.    Many  had  lost  their  boots, 
But    limped    on,    blood-shod.     All    went    lame,    all 

blind ; 
Drunk  with  fatigue;  deaf  even  to  the  hoots 
Of  gas-shells  dropping  softly  behind. 

Gas!     GAS!     Quick,  boys!     An  ecstasy  of  fumbling 

Fitting  the  clumsy  helmets  just  in  time, 

But  some  one  still  was  yelling  out  and  stumbling 

And  flound'ring  like  a  man  in  fire  or  lime. — 

Dim  through  the  misty  panes  and  thick  green  light, 

As  under  a  green  sea,  I  saw  him  drowning. 

In  all  my  dreams  before  my  helpless  sight 

He  plunges  at  me,  guttering,  choking,  drowning. 

If,  in  some  smothering  dreams,  you  too  could  pace 

Behind  the  wagon  that  we  flung  him  in, 

And  watch  the  white  eyes  writhing  in  his  face, 

His  hanging  face,  like  a  devil's  sick  of  sin, 

If  you  could  hear,  at  every  jolt,  the  blood 

Come  gargling  from  the  froth-corrupted  lungs 

Bitten  as  the  cud 

Of  vile,  incurable  sores  on  innocent  tongues — 

My  friend,  you  would  not  tell  with  such  high  zest 

To  children  ardent  for  some  desperate  glory. 

The  old  Lie:    Didce  et  decorum  est 

Pro  patria  mori. 

Wilfred  Owen 


90  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR  AND   THE   PEACE 

I  HAVE  A  RENDEZVOUS  WITH  DEATH  .   . 

I  HAVE  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
At  some  disputed  barricade, 
When  Spring  comes  back  with  rustling  shade 
And  apple-blossoms  fill  the  air — 
I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
When  Spring  brings  back  blue  days  and  fair. 

It  may  be  he  shall  take  my  hand 
And  lead  me  into  his  dark  land 
And  close  my  eyes  and  quench  my  breath — 
It  may  be  I  shall  pass  him  still. 
I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
On  some  scarred  slope  of  battered  hill, 
When  Spring  comes  round  again  this  year 
And  the  first  meadow-flowers  appear. 

God  knows  't  were  better  to  be  deep 
Pillowed  in  silk  and  scented  down, 
Where  Love  throbs  out  in  blissful  sleep 
Pulse  nigh  to  pulse,  and  breath  to  breath, 
Where  hushed  awakenings  are  dear  .    .    . 
But  I've  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
At  midnight  in  some  flaming  town, 
When  Spring  trips  north  again  this  year, 
And  I  to  my  pledged  word  am  true, 
I  shall  not  fail  that  rendezvous. 

Alan  Seeger 


THE   SUPREME   SACRIFICE  9 1 

IN  FLANDERS  FIELDS  ^ 

In  Flanders  fields  the  poppies  blow 

Between  the  crosses,  row  on  row, 

That  mark  our  place,  and  in  the  sky, 
The  larks,  still  bravely  singing,  fly, 

Scarce  heard  amid  the  guns  below. 

We  are  the  dead;  short  days  ago 
We  lived,  felt  dawn,  saw  sunset  glow. 
Loved  and  were  loved,  and  now  we  lie 
In  Flanders  fields. 

Take  up  our  quarrel  with  the  foe! 
To  you  from  failing  hands  we  throw 

The  torch;  be  yours  to  hold  it  high! 

If  ye  break  faith  with  us  who  die 
We  shall  not  sleep,  though  poppies  grow 

In  Flanders  fields. 

John  McRae 

COMRADES:  AN  EPISODE 

Before,  before  he  was  aware 

The  "  Very  "  light  had  risen  ...  on  the  air 

It  hung  glistering  .  .  . 

And  he  could  not  stay  his  hand 
From  moving  to  the  barbed  wire's  broken  strand. 
A  rifle  cracked. 

He  fell. 

1  Reprinted  by  permission  from  London  Punch. 


92  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

Night  waned.    He  was  alone.    A  heavy  shell 
Whispered  itself  passing  high,  high  overhead. 
His  wound  was  wet  to  his  hand:  for  still  it  bled 
On  to  the  glimmering  ground. 
Then  with  a  slow,  vain  smile  his  wound  he  bound, 
Knowing,  of  course,  he'd  not  see  home  again — 
Home  whose  thought  he  put  away. 

His  men 
Whispered:  "  Where's  Mister  Gates?  "   "  Out  on  the  wire." 
"  I'll  get  him,"  said  one.  .  ,  . 

Dawn  blinked,  and  the  fire 
Of  the  Germans  heaved  up  and  down  the  line. 
"Stand  to!  " 

Too  late!    "  I'll  get  him."  "  0  the  swine! 
When  we  might  get  him  in  yet  safe  and  whole!  " 
"  Corporal  did  n't  see  'un  fall  out  on  patrol, 
Or  he'd  'a  got  'un."    "  Sssh!  " 

"  No  talking  there." 
A  whisper:  "  'A  went  down  at  the  last  flare." 
Meanwhile  the  Maxims  toc-toc-tocked;  their  swish 
Of  bullets  told  death  lurked  against  the  wish. 
No  hope  for  him! 

His  corporal,  as  one  shamed, 
Vainly  and  helplessly  his  ill-luck  blamed. 


Then  Gates  slowly  saw  the  morn 
Break  in  a  rosy  peace  through  the  lone  thorn 
By  which  he  lay,  and  felt  the  dawn-wind  pass 
Whispering  through  the  pallid,  stalky  grass 
Of  No-Man's  Land.  .    .    . 


THE   SUPREME   SACRIFICE  93 

And  the  tears  came 
Scaldingly  sweet,  more  lovely  than  a  flame. 
He  closed  his  eyes:  he  thought  of  home 
And  grit  his  teeth.    He  knew  no  help  could  come.  .   .   . 


The  silent  sun  over  the  earth  held  sway, 
Occasional  rifles  cracked,  and  far  away 
A  heedless  speck,  a  'plane,  slid  on  alone, 
Like  a  fly  traversing  a  cliff  of  stone. 

"  I  must  get  back,"  said  Gates  aloud,  and  heaved 
At  his  body.    But  it  lay  bereaved 
Of  any  power.    He  could  not  wait  till  night  .    .   . 
And  he  lay  still.    Blood  swam  across  his  sight. 
Then  with  a  groan: 

"No  luck  ever!     Well,  I  must  die  alone." 
Occasional  rifles  cracked.    A  cloud  that  shone, 
Gold-rimmed,  blackened  the  sun  and  then  was  gone.  .  .  . 
The  sun  still  smiled.     The  grass  sang  in  its  play. 
Someone  whistled:  "Over  the  hills  and  far  away." 
Gates  watched  silently  the  swift,  swift  sun 
Burning  his  life  before  it  was  begun.  .    .    . 

Suddenly  he  heard  Corporal  Timmins' voice:  "Now then, 
*Urry  up  with  that  tea." 

"Hi  Ginger!  "  "Bill!  "  His  men! 
Tim^mins  and  Jones  and  Wilkinson  (the  *  bard  '), 
And  Hughes  and  Simpson.    It  was  hard 
Not  to  see  them:  Wilkinson,  stubby,  grim. 
With  his  "  No,  sir,"  "  Yes,  sir,"  and  the  slim 


94  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

Simpson:  "  Indeed,  sir?  "  (while  it  seemed  he  winked 

Because  his  smiling  left  eye  always  blinked), 

And  Corporal  Timmins,  straight  and  blond  and  wise, 

With  his  quiet-scanning,  level,  hazel  eyes; 

And  all  the  others  ,    .    .  tunics  that  did  n't  fit  .   .   . 

A  dozen  different  sorts  of  eyes,     O,  it 

Was  hard  to  lie  there!     Yet  he  must.    But  no: 

"  I've  got  to  die.    I'll  get  to  them.    I'll  go." 

Inch  by  inch  he  fought,  breathless  and  mute, 

Dragging  his  carcase  like  a  famished  brute.   .    .    . 

His  head  was  hammering,  and  his  eyes  were  dim; 

A  bloody  sweat  seemed  to  ooze  out  of  him 

And  freeze  along  his  spine.  .    .    .  Then  he'd  lie  still 

Before  another  effort  of  his  will 

Took  him  one  nearer  yard. 

•  •  •  •  •  •  ,  • 

The  parapet  was  reached. 
He  could  not  rise  to  it.    A  lookout  screeched: 
"Mr.  Gates!  " 

Three  figures  in  one  breath 
Leaped  up.    Two  figures  fell  in  toppling  death; 
And  Gates  was  lifted  in.    "  Who's  hit?  "  said  he. 
"  Timmins  and  Jones."    "  Why  did  they  that  for  me? — 
I'm  gone  already!  "    Gently  they  laid  him  prone 
And  silently  watched. 

He  twitched.  They  heard  him  moan 
"  Why  for  me?  "  His  eyes  roamed  round,  and  none  replied. 
"  I  see  it  was  alone  I  should  have  died." 
They  shook  their  heads.    Then,  "  Is  the  doctor  here?  " 
"He's  coming,  sir;  he's  hurryin',  no  fear." 


THE   SUPREME   SACRIFICE  g$ 

"  No  good  .    .    . 

Lift  me."    They  lifted  him. 

He  smiled  and  held  his  arms  out  to  the  dim, 

And  in  a  moment  passed  beyond  their  ken, 

Hearing  him  whisper,  "  0  my  men,  my  men!  " 

Robert  Nichols 

In  Hospital,  London 
Autumn,  1915 

HOW  RIFLEMAN  BROWN  CAME  TO  VALHALLA 

To  the  lower  Hall  of  Valhalla,  to  the  heroes  of  no  renown, 

Relieved  from  his  spell  at  the  listening-post,  came  Rifle- 
man Joseph  Brown. 

With  never  a  rent  in  his  khaki  nor  smear  of  blood  on 
his  face. 

He  flung  his  pack  from  his  shoulders  and  made  for  an 
empty  place. 

The  Killer-men  of  Valhalla  looked  up  from  the  banquet- 
board 

At  the  unfouled  breech  of  his  rifle,  at  the  unfleshed  point 
of  his  sword; 

And  the  unsung  dead  of  the  trenches,  the  kings  who  have 
never  a  crown, 

Demanded  his  pass  to  Valhalla  from  Rifleman  Joseph 
Brown. 

"  Who  comes,  unhit,  to  the  party?  "  A  one-legged  Cor- 
poral spoke, 

And  the  gashed  heads  nodded  approval  through  the  rings 
of  the  Endless  Smoke: 


96  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR  AND   THE   PEACE 

"  Who  comes  for  the  beer  and  the  Woodbines  of  the 
never-closed  Canteen, 

"  With  the  barrack-shine  on  his  bayonet  and  a  full- 
charged  magazine?  " 

Then  Rifleman  Brown  looked  round  him  at  the  nameless 
men  of  the  Line — 

At  the  wounds  of  the  shell  and  the  bullet,  at  the  burns 
of  the  bomb  and  the  mine; 

At  the  tunics,  virgin  of  medals  but  crimson-clotted  with 
blood; 

At  the  ankle-boots  and  the  puttees,  caked  stiff  with  the 
Flanders  mud; 

At  the  myriad  short  Lee-Enfields  that  crowded  the  rifle- 
rack, 

Each  with  its  blade  to  the  sword-boss  brown  and  its 
muzzle  powder-black: 

And  Rifleman  Brown  said  never  a  word;  yet  he  felt  in 

the  soul  of  his  soul 
His  right  to  the  beer  of  the  lower  Hall,  though  he  came 

to  drink  of  it,  whole; 
His  right  to  the  fags  of  the  free  Canteen,  to  a  seat  at  the 

banquet-board, 
Though  he  came  to  the  men  who  had  killed  their  man 

with  never  a  man  to  his  sword. 

"  Who  speaks  for  the  stranger  Rifleman,  0  boys  of  the 

free  Canteen? 
Who  passes  the  chap  with  the  unmaimed  limbs  and  the 

kit  that  is  far  too  clean?  " 


THE   SUPREME   SACRIFICE  97 

The  gashed  heads  eyed  him  above  their  beers,  the  gashed 

hps  sucked  at  their  smoke: 
There  were  three  at  the  board  of  his  own  platoon,  but 

not  a  man  of  them  spoke. 

His  mouth  was  mad  for  the  tankard  froth  and  the  biting 

whiff  of  the  fag, 
But  he  knew  that  he  might  not  speak  for  himself  to  the 

dead  men  who  do  not  brag. 

A  gun-butt  crashed  on  the  gateway,  a  man  came  stag- 
gering in; 

His  head  was  cleft  with  a  great  red  wound  from  the 
temple-bone  to  the  chin. 

His  blade  was  dyed  to  the  bayonet-boss  with  the  clots 
that  were  scarcely  dry; 

And  he  cried  to  the  men  who  had  killed  their  man: 
"Who  passes  the  Rifleman?     I! 

By  the  four  I  slew,  by  the  shell  I  stopped,  if  my  feet 
be  not  too  late, 

I  speak  the  word  for  Rifleman  Brown  that  a  chap  may 
speak  for  his  mate." 

The  dead  of  lower  Valhalla,  the  heroes  of  dumb  renown. 
They  pricked  their  ears  to  a  tale  of  the  earth  as  they 

set  their  tankards  down. 
"  My  mate  was  on  sentry  this  evening  when  the  General 

happened  along. 
And  asked  what  he'd  do  in  a  gas-attack.    Joe  told  him: 

'  Beat  on  the  gcng.' 
'  What  else?  ' 

*  Open  fire,  Sir,'  Joe  answered. 


98  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

*  Good  God,  man/  our  General  said, 
'  By  the  time  you'd  beaten  that  bloodstained  gong  the 

chances  are  you'd  be  dead. 
Just  think,  lad.' 

'  Gas  helmet,  of  course,  Sir.' 

'  Yes,  damn  it,  and  gas  helmet  first.' 
So  Joe  stood  dumb  to  attention,  and  wondered  why  he'd 
been  cursed." 

The  gashed  heads  turned  to  the  Rifleman,  and  now  it 

seemed  that  they  knew 
Why  the  face  that  had  never  a  smear  of  blood  was  stained 

to  the  jawbones,  blue. 
"  He  was  posted  again  at  midnight."    The  scarred  heads 

craned  to  the  voice, 
As  the  man  with  the  blood-red  bayonet  spoke  up  for 

the  mate  of  his  choice. 
"  You  know  what  it's  like  in  a  listening-post,  the  Very 

candles  aflare. 
Their  bullets  smacking  the  sand-bags,  our  Vickers  comb- 
ing your  hair, 
How  your  ears  and  your  eyes  get  jumpy,  till  each  known 

tuft  that  you  scan 
Moves  and  crawls  in  the  shadows  till  you'd  almost  swear 

it  was  man; 
You  know  how  you  peer  and  snuff  at  the  night  when 

the  North-East  gas-winds  blow." 
"  By  the  One  who  made  us  and  maimed  us,"  quoth  lower 

Valhalla,  "we  know!  " 

"  Sudden,  out  of  the  blackness,  sudden  as  Hell  there  came 
Roar  and  rattle  of  rifles,  spurts  of  machine-gun  flame; 


THE   SUPREME   SACRIFICE  99 

And  Joe  stood  up  on  the  forward  sap  to  try  and  fathom 

the  game. 
Sudden,  their  shells  come  screaming;  sudden,  his  nostrils 

sniff 
The  sickening  reek  of  the  rotten  pears,  the  death  that 

kills  with  a  whiff. 
Death!   and  he  knows  it  certain,  as  he  bangs  on  his 

cartridge-case, 
With  the  gas-cloud's  claws  at  his  windpipe  and  the  gas 

cloud's  wings  on  his  face  .    .    . 
We  heard  his  gong  in  our  dug-out,  he  only  whacked  on 

it  twice. 
We  whipped  our  gas-bags  over  our  heads,  and  manned 

the  step  in  a  trice — 
For  the  cloud  would  have  caught  us  as  sure  as  Fate  if 

he'd  taken  the  Staff's  advice." 

His  head  was  cleft  with  a  great  red  wound  from  the  chin 

to  the  temple-bone, 
But  his  voice  was  as  clear  as  a  sounding  gong,  "  I'll  be 

damned  if  I'll  drink  alone. 
Not  even  in  lower  Valhalla!     Is  he  free  of  your  free 

Canteen, 
My  mate  who  comes  with  the  unfleshed  point  and  the 

full-charged  magazine?  " 

The  gashed  heads  rose  at  the  Rifleman  o'er  the  rings  of 
the  Endless  Smoke, 

And  loud  as  the  roar  of  a  thousand  guns  Valhalla's  an- 
swer broke, 


100         POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

And  loud  as  the  crash  of  a  thousand  shells  their  tankards 

clashed  on  the  board: 
"  He  is  free  of  the  mess  of  the  Killer-men,  your  mate  of 

the  unfleshed  sword; 
For  we  know  the  worth  of  his  deed  on  earth ;  as  we  know 

the  speed  of  the  death 
Which  catches  its  man  by  the  back  of  the  throat  and 

gives  him  water  for  breath; 
As  we  know  how  the  hand  at  the  helmet-cloth  may  tarry 

seconds  too  long, 
When  the  very  life  of  the  front-line  trench  is  staked  on 

the  beat  of  a  gong. 
By  the  four  you  slew,  by  the  case  he  smote,  by  the  gray 

gas-cloud  and  the  green. 
We  pass  your  mate  for  the  Endless  Smoke  and  the  beer 

of  the  free  canteen." 

In  the  lower  hall  of  Valhalla,  with  the  heroes  of  no 
renown, 

With  our  nameless  dead  of  the  Marne  and  the  Aisne,  of 
the  Mons  and  of  Wipers  town, 

With  the  men  who  killed  ere  they  died  for  us,  sits  Rifle- 
man Joseph  Brown. 

Gilbert  Frankau 


THE  GOING 

(For  R.  B.) 

He's   gone. 

I  do  not  understand. 

I  only  know 


THE   SUPREME   SACRIFICE  '  lOI 

That  as  he  turned  to  go 

And  waved  his  hand 

In  his  young  eyes  a  sudden  glory  shone: 

And  I  was  dazzled  by  a  sunset  glow, 

And  he  was  gone, 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 
23d  April,  1915 


THE  DEAD 

I 

Blow  out,  you  bugles,  over  the  rich  Dead! 

There's  none  of  these  so  lonely  and  poor  of  old, 
But,  dying,  has  made  us  rarer  gifts  than  gold. 

These  laid  the  world  away;  poured  out  the  red 

Sweet  wine  of  youth;  gave  up  the  years  to  be 
Of  work  and  joy,  and  that  unhoped  serene, 
That  men  call  age;  and  those  who  would  have  been, 

Their  sons,  they  gave,  their  immortality. 

Blow,  bugles,  blow!     They  brought  us,  for  our  dearth, 

Holiness,  lacked  so  long,  and  Love,  and  Pain. 
Honour  has  come  back,  as  a  king,  to  earth. 
And  paid  his  subjects  with  a  royal  wage; 
And  Nobleness  walks  in  our  ways  again; 
And  we  have  come  into  our  heritage. 

II 

These  hearts  were  woven  of  human  joys  and  cares, 
Washed  marvellously  with  sorrow,  swift  to  mirth. 

The  years  had  given  them  kindness.    Dawn  was  theirs, 
And  sunset,  and  the  colours  of  the  earth. 


102         POEMS   OF   THE   WAR  AND   THE   PEACE 

These  had  seen  movement  and  heard  music;  known 
Slumber  and  waking;  loved;  gone  proudly  friended; 

Felt  the  quick  stir  of  wonder;  sat  alone; 
Touched  flowers  and  furs  and  cheeks.    All  this  is  ended. 

There  are  waters  blown  by  changing  winds  to  laughter 

And  lit  by  the  rich  skies,  all  day.    And  after, 
Frost,  with  a  gesture,  stays  the  waves  that  dance 

And  wandering  loveliness.    He  leaves  a  white 
Unbroken  glory,  a  gathered  radiance, 

A  width,  a  shining  peace,  under  the  night. 

Rupert  Brooke 


ROUGE  BOUQUET 

In  a  wood  they  call  the  Rouge  Bouquet 
There  is  a  new-made  grave  to-day. 
Built  by  never  a  spade  nor  pick 
Yet  covered  with  earth  ten  metres  thick. 
There  lie  many  fighting  men, 

Dead  in  their  youthful  prime, 
Never  to  laugh  nor  love  again 

Nor  taste  the  Summertime. 
For  Death  came  flying  through  the  air 
And  stopped  his  flight  at  the  dugout  stair, 
Touched  his  prey  and  left  them  there. 

Clay  to  clay. 
He  hid  their  bodies  stealthily 
In  the  soil  of  the  land  they  fought  to  free 

And  fled  away. 


THE   SUPREME   SACRIFICE  IO3, 

Now  over  the  graves  abrupt  and  clear 

Three  volleys  ring; 
And  perhaps  their  brave  young  spirits  hear 

The  bugle  sing: 
"Go  to  sleep! 
Go  to  sleep! 

Slumber  well  where  the  shell  screamed  and  fell. 
Let  your  rifles  rest  on  the  muddy  floor, 
You  will  not  need  them  any  more. 
Danger's  past; 
Now  at  last, 
Go  to  sleep!  " 

There  is  on  earth  no  worthier  grave 
To  hold  the  bodies  of  the  brave 
Than  this  place  of  pain  and  pride 
Where  they  nobly  fought  and  nobly  died. 
Never  fear  but  in  the  skies 
Saints  and  angels  stand 
Smiling  with  their  holy  eyes 

On  this  new-come  band. 
St.  Michael's  sword  darts  through  the  air 
And  touches  the  aureole  on  his  hair 
As  he  sees  them  stand  saluting  there, 

His  stalwart  sons; 
And  Patrick,  Brigid,  Columkill 
Rejoice  that  in  veins  of  warriors  still 

The  Gael's  blood  runs. 
And  up  to  Heaven's  doorway  floats, 

From  the  wood  called  Rouge  Bouquet, 
A  delicate  cloud  of  buglenotes 


104         POEMS   OF   THE   WAR  AND   THE   PEACE 

That  softly  say: 
"  Farewell! 
Farewell ! 

Comrades  true,  born  anew,  peace  to  you! 
Your  souls  shall  be  where  the  heroes  are 
And  your  memory  shine  like  the  morning-star. 
Brave  and  dear, 
Shield  us  here. 

Farewell!  " 

Joyce  Kilmer 

THE  FALLEN  SUBALTERN 

The  starshells  float  above,  the  bayonets  glisten; 

We  bear  our  fallen  friend  without  a  sound; 
Below  the  waiting  legions  lie  and  listen 

To  us,  who  march  upon  the  burial-ground. 

Wound  in  the  flag  of  England,  here  we  lay  him; 

The  guns  will  flash  and  thunder  o'er  the  grave; 
What  other  winding  sheet  should  now  array  him, 

What  other  music  should  salute  the  brave? 

As  goes  the  Sun-god  in  his  chariot  glorious, 
When  all  his  golden  banners  are  unfurled, 

So  goes  the  soldier,  fallen  but  victorious, 
And  leaves  behind  a  twilight  in  the  world. 

And  those  who  come  this  way,  in  days  hereafter. 
Will  know  that  here  a  boy  for  England  fell, 

Who  looked  at  danger  with  the  eyes  of  laughter, 
And  on  the  charge  his  days  were  ended  well. 


THE   SUPREME   SACRIFICE  IO5 

One  last  salute;  the  bayonets  clash  and  glisten; 

With  arms  reversed  we  go  without  a  sound: 
One  more  has  joined  the  men  who  lie  and  listen 

To  us,  who  march  upon  their  burial-ground. 

Herbert  Asquith 
1915 


A  CROSS  IN  FLANDERS 

In  the  face  of  death,  they  say,  he  joked— he  had  no  fear; 

His  comrades,  when  they  laid  him  in  a  Flanders  grave, 
Wrote  on  a  rough-hewn  cross — a  Calvary  stood  near — 

"  Without  a  fear  he  gave 

"  His  life,  cheering  his  men,  with  laughter  on  his  lips." 
So  wrote  they,  mourning  him.    Yet  was  there  only  one 

Who  fully  understood  his  laughter,  his  gay  quips, 
One  only,  she  alone — 

She  who,  not  so  long  since,  when  love  was  new-confest, 
Herself  toyed  with  light  laughter  while  her  eyes  were 
dim, 

And  jested,  while  with  reverence  despite  her  jest 
She  worshipped  God  and  him. 

She  knew— O  Love,  0  Death!— his  soul  had  been  at  grips 
With  the  most  solemn  things.     For  she,  was  she  not 
dear? 
Yes,  he  was  brave,  most  brave,  with  laughter  on  his  lips, 
The  braver  for  his  fear! 

G.  Rostrevor  Hamilton 


I06         POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

"ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR" 

(T.  M.  Kettle — killed  at  Ginchy,  19 16) 

You  always  were  for  sides,  your  hand 

Rose  to  the  shock  of  partisan  blows. 
And  now,  at  ease  in  No  Man's  Land, 

You  sprawl  between  your  friends  and  foes. 
The  carved  mouth  and  the  challenging  eye, 

Your  loud  scorn  and  your  quiet  faith — 
Who  would  believe  that  you  would  lie 

In  the  anonymous  ranks  of  death. 

I  wonder  how  you  take  your  rest, 

Whose  restless  vigor  tossed  and  burned; 
And  do  you  find  earth's  stony  breast 

Warmer  than  those  from  which  you  turned. 
Are  you  content  with  this,  the  goal 

Of  all  your  purposes  and  pains; 
Knowing  the  iron  in  your  soul 

Will  not  corrode,  for  all  the  rains? 

An  end  to  questions  now.    You  are 

Their  silent  answer  on  this  red 
Terrain  where  every  flickering  star 

Is  a  last  candle  by  your  bed. 
The  guns  are  stilled  and  you  are  part 

Of  the  clean  winds  that  smooth  your  brow. 
O  vigilant  mind,  0  tireless  heart, 

Try  sleeping  now. 

Louis  Untermeyer 


THE   SUPREME   SACRIFICE  IO7 

A  YOUNG  TREE 

(For  J.  W.) 

There  are  so  few  trees  here,  so  few  young  trees, 

That  Fate  might  have  been  merciful 

And  turned  aside  the  shock  of  flame 

That  strewed  your  branches  on  the  torn-up  earth, 

Ending  the  joy  we  had  in  your  fresh  leaves. 

And  every  dear  young  lad  that's  killed 

Seems  to  cry  out: 

"  We  are  so  few,  so  very  few. 

Could  not  our  fate  have  been  more  merciful?  " 

Richard  Aldington 

FOR  THE  FALLEN 

With  proud  thanksgiving,  a  mother  for  her  children, 
England  mourns  for  her  dead  across  the  sea. 
Flesh  of  her  flesh  they  were,  spirit  of  her  spirit, 
Fallen  in  the  cause  of  the  free. 

Solemn  the  drums  "thrill;  Death  august  and  royal 
Sings  sorrow  up  into  immortal  spheres, 
There  is  music  in  the  midst  of  desolation 
And  a  glory  that  shines  upon  our  tears. 

They  went  with  songs  to  the  battle,  they  were  young, 
Straight  of  limb,  true  of  eye,  steady  and  aglow. 
They  were  staunch  to  the  end  against  odds  uncounted; 
They  fell  with  their  faces  to  the  foe. 


I08         POEMS   OF   THE   WAR  AND   THE   PEACE 

They  shall  grow  not  old,  as  we  that  are  left  grow  old: 
Age  shall  not  weary  them,  nor  the  years  condemn. 
At  the  going  down  of  the  sun  and  in  the  morning 
We  will  remember  them. 

They  mingle  not  with  their  laughing  comrades  again; 
They  sit  no  more  at  familiar  tables  of  home; 
They  have  no  lot  in  our  labour  of  the  day-time; 
They  sleep  beyond  England's  foam. 

But  where  our  desires  are  and  our  hopes  profound, 
Felt  as  a  well-spring  that  is  hidden  from  sight. 
To  the  innermost  heart  of  their  own  land  they  are  known 
As  the  stars  are  known  to  the  Night; 

As  the  stars  that  shall  be  bright  when  we  are  dust, 
Moving  in  marches  upon  the  heavenly  plain; 
As  the  stars  that  are  starry  in  the  time  of  our  darkness, 
To  the  end,  to  the  end,  they  remain. 

Laurence  Binyon 

THE  DEBT 

No  more  old  England  will  they  see — 
Those  men  who've  died  for  you  and  me. 

So  lone  and  cold  they  lie;  but  we, 
We  still  have  life;  we  still  may  greet 
Our  pleasant  friends  in  home  and  street; 
We  still  have  life,  are  able  still 
To  climb  the  turf  of  Bignor  Hill, 
To  see  the  placid  sheep  go  by, 
To  hear  the  sheep-dog's  eager  cry, 


THE   SUPREME   SACRIFICE  lOQ 

To  feel  the  sun,  to  taste  the  rain, 
To  smell  the  Autumn's  scents  again 
Beneath  the  brown  and  gold  and  red 
Which  old  October's  brush  has  spread, 
To  hear  the  robin  in  the  lane. 
To  look  upon  the  English  sky. 

So  young  they  were,  so  strong  and  well, 

Until  the  bitter  summons  fell — 

Too  young  to  die. 

Yet  there  on  foreign  soil  they  lie, 

So  pitiful,  with  glassy  eye 

And  limbs  all  tumbled  anyhow: 

Quite  finished,  now. 

On  every  heart — lest  we  forget — 
Secure  at  home — engrave  this  debt! 

Too  delicate  is  flesh  to  be 

The  shield  that  nations  interpose 

'Twixt  red  Ambition  and  his  foes — 

The  bastion  of  Liberty. 

So  beautiful  their  bodies  were, 

Built  with  so  exquisite  a  care: 

So  young  and  fit  and  lithe  and  fair. 

The  very  flower  of  us  were  they, 

The  very  flower,  but  yesterday! 

Yet  now  so  pitiful  they  lie, 

Where  love  of  country  bade  them  hie 

To  fight  this  fierce  Caprice — and  die. 

All  mangled  now,  where  shells  have  burst. 

And  lead  and  steel  have  done  their  worst; 


no         POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

The  tender  tissues  ploughed  away, 
The  years'  slow  processes  effaced: 
The  Mother  of  us  all — disgraced. 

And  some  leave  wives  behind,  young  wives; 

Already  some  have  launched  new  lives: 

A  little  daughter,  little  son — 

For  thus  this  blundering  world  goes  on. 

But  never  more  will  any  see 

The  old  secure  felicity. 

The  kindnesses  that  made  us  glad 

Before  the  world  went  mad. 

They'll  never  hear  another  bird, 

Another  gay  or  loving  word — 

Those  men  who  lie  so  cold  and  lone, 

Far  in  a  country  not  their  own; 

Those  men  who  died  for  you  and  me, 
That  England  still  might  sheltered  be 
And  all  our  lives  go  on  the  same 
(Although  to  live  is  almost  shame). 

E.  V.  Lucas 

EDITH  CAVELL 

The  world  hath  its  own  dead;  great  motions  start 
In  human  breasts,  and  make  for  them  a  place 
In  that  hushed  sanctuary  of  the  race 

Where  every  day  men  come,  kneel,  and  depart. 

Of  them,  0  English  nurse,  henceforth  thou  art 
A  name  to  pray  on,  and  to  all  a  face 
Of  household  consecration;  such  His  grace 

Whose  universal  dwelling  is  the  heart. 


THE   SUPREME   SACRIFICE  III 

0  gentle  hands  that  soothed  the  soldier's  brow 
And  knew  no  service  save  of  Christ's  the  Lord! 
Thy  country  now  is  all  humanity. 

How  like  a  flower  thy  womanhood  doth  show 
In  the  harsh  scything  of  the  German  sword. 

And  beautifies  the  world  that  saw  it  die! 

George  Edward  Woodberry 


NOT  TO  KEEP 

They  sent  him  back  to  her.    The  letter  came 

Saying  .    .    .  and  she  could  have  him.    And  before 

She  could  be  sure  there  was  no  hidden  ill 

Under  the  formal  writing,  he  was  in  her  sight — 

Living. — They  gave  him  back  to  her  alive — 

How  else?    They  are  not  known  to  send  the  dead — 

And  not  disfigured  visibly.    His  face? — 

His  hands?     She  had  to  look — to  ask 

"What  was  it,  dear?  "     And  she  had  given  all 

And  still  she  had  all — they  had — they  the  lucky! 

Wasn't  she  glad  now?    Everything  seemed  won, 

And  all  the  rest  for  them  permissible  ease. 

She  had  to  ask  "  What  was  it,  dear?  " 

''  Enough, 
Yet  not  enough.     A  bullet  through  and  through. 
High  in  the  breast.    Nothing  but  what  good  care 
And  medicine  and  rest — and  you  a  week, 
Can  cure  me  of  to  go  again."    The  same 
Grim  giving  to  do  over  for  them  both. 
She  dared  no  more  than  ask  him  with  her  eyes 


112         POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

How  was  it  with  him  for  a  second  trial. 
And  with  his  eyes  he  asked  her  not  to  ask. 
They  had  given  him  back  to  her,  but  not  to  keep. 

Robert  Frost 


DURING  DARKNESS 

Take  me  under  thy  wing,  O  death. 

I  am  tired,  I  am  cold  .    .    . 
Take  me  under  thy  wing,  0  great,  impartial  bird; 
Take  me,  carry  me  hence 
And  let  me  sleep. 
For  the  soil  that  was  once  so  sweet  is  sour  with  rotting 

dead; 
The  air  is  acrid  with  battle  fumes; 
And  even  the  sky  is  obscured  by  the  cannon's  smoke. 
Beauty  and  Peace — where  are  they? 
They  have  gone,  and  to  what  avail? 
The  mountains  stand  where  the  mountains  stood, 
And  the  polluted  seas  boil  in  the  selfsame  basin, 
Unconcerned. 

The  beast  in  man  is  again  on  the  trail, 
Swinging  his  arms  and  sniffing  the  air  for  blood. 
And  what  was  gentle, 
What  bore  fruit  with  patient  pain,  is  gone. 


Take  me  under  thy  wing, 
O  Death. 

Jean  Starr  Untermeyer 


THE   SUPREME   SACRIFICE  II3 

SPRING  IN  WAR-TIME 

I  FEEL  the  spring  far  off,  far  off, 
The  faint,  far  scent  of  bud  and  leaf — 

Oh,  how  can  spring  take  heart  to  come 
To  a  world  in  grief, 
Deep  grief? 

The  sun  turns  north,  the  days  grow  long, 
Later  the  evening  star  grows  bright — 

How  can  the  daylight  linger  on 
For  men  to  fight, 
Still  fight? 

The  grass  is  waking  in  the  ground, 
Soon  it  will  rise  and  blow  in  waves — 

How  can  it  have  the  heart  to  sway 
Over  the  graves, 
New  graves? 

Under  the  boughs  where  lovers  walked 
The  apple-blooms  will  shed  their  breath — 

But  what  of  all  the  lovers  now 
Parted  by  Death, 
Grey  Death? 

Sara  T^asdale 

"  THERE  WILL  COME  SOFT  RAINS  " 

There  will  come  soft  rains  and  the  smell  of  the  ground, 
And  swallows  calling  with  their  shimmering  sound; 


114         POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

And  frogs  in  the  pools  singing  at  night, 
And  wild-plum  trees  in  tremulous  white; 

Robins  will  wear  their  feathery  fire 
Whistling  their  whims  on  a  low  fence- wire; 

And  not  one  will  know  of  the  war,  not  one 
Will  care  at  last  when  it  is  done. 

Not  one  would  mind,  neither  bird  nor  tree, 
If  mankind  perished  utterly; 

And  Spring  herself,  when  she  woke  at  dawn, 
Would  scarcely  know  that  we  were  gone. 

Sara  T-easdale 


MISSING 

Lord,  how  can  he  be  dead?  , 

For  he  stood  there  just  this  morn 
With  the  live  blood  in  his  cheek 
And  the  live  light  on  his  head? 

Dost  Thou  remember,  Lord,  when  he  was  born, 

And  all  my  heart  went  forth  thy  praise  to  seek, 
(I,  a  creator  even  as  Thou,) — 
To  force  Thee  to  confess 
The  little,  young,  heart-breaking  loveliness. 
Like  willow-buds  in  Spring,  upon  his  brow? 
Newest  of  unfledged  things. 
All  perfect  but  the  wings. 


THE   SUPREME   SACRIFICE  11$ 

Master,  I  lit  my  tender  candle-light 

Straight  at  the  living  fire  that  rays  abroad 
From  thy  dread  altar,  God! 

How  should  it  end  in  night? 

Lord,  in  my  time  of  trouble,  of  tearing  strife, 

Even  then  I  loved  thy  will,  even  then  I  knew 
That  nothing  is  so  beautiful  as  life!    .    .    . 

Is  not  the  world's  great  woe  thine  anguish  too? 
It  hath  not  passed,  thine  hour, 

Again  Thou  kneelest  in  the  olive-wood. 

The  lands  are  drunk  with  sharp-set  lust  of  power, 

The  kings  are  thirsting,  and  they  pour  thy  blood. 
But  we,  the  mothers,  we  that  found  thy  trace 
Down  terrible  ways,  that  looked  upon  thy  face 
And  are  not  dead — how  should  we  doubt  thy  grace? 

How  many  women  in  how  many  lands — 
Almost  I  weep  for  them  as  for  mine  own — 
That  wait  beside  the  desolate  hearthstone! 

Always  before  the  embattled  army  stands 
The  horde  of  women  like  a  phantom  wall, 

Barring  the  way  with  desperate,  futile  hands. 
The  first  charge  tramples  them,  the  first  of  all! 

Dost  Thou  remember.  Lord,  the  hearts  that  prayed 
As  down  the  shouting  village  street  they  swung, 
The  beautiful  fighting-men?     The  sunlight  flung 

His  keen  young  face  up  like  an  unfleshed  blade  .   .   . 
O  God,  so  young! 


Il6         POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

Lord,  hast  Thou  gone  away? 

Once  more  through  all  the  worlds  thy  touch  I  seek. 
Lord,  how  can  he  be  dead? 
For  he  stood  here  just  this  day 
With  the  live  blood  in  his  cheek, 
And  the  live  light  on  his  head? 
Lord,  how  can  he  be  dead? 

Beatrice  W.  Ravenel 


NOT  DEAD 

Walking  through  trees  to  cool  my  heat  and  pain, 

I  know  that  David's  with  me  here  again. 

All  that  is  simple,  happy,  strong,  he  is. 

Caressingly  I  stroke 

Rough  bark  of  the  friendly  oak. 

A  brook  goes  bubbling  by:  the  voice  is  his. 

Turf  burns  with  pleasant  smoke; 

I  laugh  at  chaffinch  and  at  primroses. 

All  that  is  simple,  happy,  strong,  he  is. 

Over  the  whole  world,  in  a  little  while, 

Breaks  his  slow  smile. 

Robert  Graves 


THE  HEART  CRY 

She  turned  the  page  of  wounds  and  death 
With  trembling  fingers.     In  a  breath 
The  gladness  of  her  life  became 
Naught  but  a  memory  and  a  name. 


THE   SUPREME   SACRIFICE  1 1? 

Farewell!   Farewell!    I  might  not  share 
The  perils  it  was  yours  to  dare. 
Dauntless  you  fronted  death:  for  me 
Rests  to  face  life  as  fearlessly. 

F.  W.  Bourdillon 


A  NEW  HEAVEN 

We  have  our  hopes  and  fears  that  flout  us, 

We  have  our  illusions,  changeless  through  the  years; 

We  have  our  dreams  of  rest  after  long  struggle, 

After  our  toil  is  finished,  folded  hands. 

But  for  those  who  have  fallen  in  battle, 

What  Heaven  can  there  be? 

Heaven  is  full  of  those  who  can  remember 

The  ebbing-out  of  life  that  slowly  lingered 

At  the  dark  doors  of  pain; 

Heaven  is  full  of  those  who  dropped  their  burden 

At  last  through  weariness; 

But  these  the  War  has  taken 

Remember  naught  but  their  own  exultant  youth 

Filling  their  hearts  with  unaccomplished  dreams: 

The  trumpet-call — then  the  swift  searing  darkness 

Stilling  the  proud  sad  song. 

How  will  these  enter  in 

Our  old  dull  Heaven? 

Where  we  seek  only  to  drowse  at  ease,  unthinking, 

Since  we  are  safe  at  last. 


Il8         POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

Safe?     For  these  souls  who  faced  a  thousand  dangers, 

And  found  sly  Death  that  robbed  them  of  their  chance, 

Ere  it  befell? 

Safe — can  a  Heaven  which  is  safe  and  painless, 

Ever  be  Heaven  to  them? 

Somewhere   amid   the   clouds   there   is    the  home  of 

thunder ; 
Thunder  is  naught  to  them, 
It  is  a  ball,  a  heavy  plaything 
They  may  kick  hither  and  thither  with  their  feet. 
Lightning  is  but  a  toy — the  flaming  stars 
Are  endless  camp-fire  lights; 
And  for  the  silence  of  eternity. 
They  too,  on  out-post  duty,  often  heard  it  speak. 

We  have  the  dreams  of  our  fat  lives  that  lead  us 

To  waste  our  lives; 

We  have  the  false  hope  we  are  serving  others 

When  it  is  but  ourselves  we  serve; 

Yet  for  these  who  have  never  lived,  and  whose  sole 

service 
Was  but  to  die  too  soon. 

Perhaps  somewhere  they  are  making  a  new  Heaven 
Filled  with  the  divine  despair  and  joy  this  dead  earth 

never  knew. 

John  Gould  Fletcher 


IV 

THE  IDEAL  OF  PEACE 

Would  you  end  war? 
Create  great  Peace  .    .    . 
James  Oppenheim. 


THE  RED  COUNTRY 

In  the  red  country 

The  sky  flowers 

All  day. 

Strange  mechanical  birds 

With  struts  of  wire  and  glazed  wings 

Cross  the  impassive  sky 

Which  burgeons  ever  and  again 

With  ephemeral  unfolding  flowers, 

White  and  yellow  and  brown. 

That  spread  and  dissolve. 

And  smaller  rapid  droning  birds  go  by, 

And  bright  metallic  bees  whose  sting  is  death, 

Behind  the  hills, 

Behind  the  whispering  woods  whose  leaves  are  falling 

Yellow  and  red  to  cover  the  red  clay, 

Misshapen  monsters  squat  with  wide  black  maws 

Gulping  smoke  and  belching  flame. 

From  the  mirk  reed  beds  of  the  age  of  coal, 

Wallowing  out  of  their  sleep  in  the  earlier  slime, 

They  are  resurrected  and  stagger  forth  to  slay — 

The  prehistoric  Beasts  we  thought  were  dead. 

They  are  blinded  with  long  sleep, 

But  men  with  clever  weapons 

Goad  them  to  fresh  pastures. 

121 


122  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR  AND   THE   PEACE 

Beside  still  waters 

They  drink  of  blood  and  neigh  a  horrible  laughter, 

And  their  ponderous  tread  shakes  happy  cities  down, 

And  the  thresh  of  their  fiail-like  tails 

Makes  acres  smoulder  and  smoke 

Blackened  of  golden  harvest. 

The  Beasts  are  back, 

And  men,  in  their  spreading  shadow, 

Inhale  the  odor  of  their  nauseous  breath. 

Inebriate  with  it  they  fashion  other  gods 

Than  the  gods  of  day-dream. 

Of  iron  and  steel  are  little  images 

Made  of  the  Beasts. 

And  men  rush  forth  and  fling  themselves  for  ritual 

Before  these  gods,  before  the  lumbering  Beasts — 

And  some  make  long  obeisance. 

Umber  and  violet  flowers  of  the  sky. 
The  sun,  like  a  blazing  Mars,  clanks  across  the  blue 
And  plucks  you,  to  fashion  into  a  nosegay 
To  offer  Venus,  his  old-time  paramour. 
But  now  she  shrinks 
And  pales 

Like  Cynthia,  her  more  ascetic  sister  .    .    . 
Vulcan  came  to  her  arms  in  the  grimy  garb 
Of  toil,  he  smelt  of  the  forge  and  the  racketing  work- 
shop. 
But  not  of  blood. 

And,  if  she  smells  these  flowers,  they  bubble  ruby  blood 
That  trickles  between  her  fingers. 


THE  IDEAL   OF   PEACE  123 

Yet  is  a  dream  flowing  over  the  red  country, 

Yet  is  a  light  growing,  for  all  the  black  furrows  of  the 

red  country   .    .    . 
The  machines  are  foe  or  friend 
As  the  world  desires. 
The  Beasts  shall  sleep  again. 
And  in  that  sleep,  when  the  land  is  twilight-still 
And  men  take  thought  among  the  frozen  waves  of  the 

dead, 
The  Sowers  go  forth  once  more, 
Sowers  of  vision,  sowers  of  the  seed 
Of  peace  or  war. 
Shall  it  be  peace  indeed? 

Great  shadowy  figures  moving  from  hill  to  hill 
Of  tangled  bodies,  with  rhythmic  stride  and  cowled 

averted  head, 
What  do  you  sow  with  hands  funereal — 
New  savageries  imperial, 
Unthinking  pomps  for  arrogant,  witless  men? 
Or  seed  for  the  people  in  strong  democracy? 
What  do  you  see 
With  your  secret  eyes,  and  sow  for  us,  that  we  must 

reap  again? 

William  Rose  Benet 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  WALKS  AT  MIDNIGHT 

(In  Springfield,  Illinois) 
It  is  portentous,  and  a  thing  of  state 
That  here  at  midnight,  in  our  little  town 
A  mourning  figure  walks,  and  will  not  rest. 
Near  the  old  court-house  pacing  up  and  down, 


124         POEMS   OF   THE   WAR  AND   THE   PEACE 

Or  by  his  homestead,  or  in  shadowed  yards 
He  hngers  where  his  children  used  to  play, 
Or  through  the  market,  on  the  well-worn  stones 
He  stalks  until  the  dawn-stars  burn  away. 


A  bronzed,  lank  man!     His  suit  of  ancient  black, 
A  famous  high  top-hat  and  plain  worn  shawl 
Make  him  the  quaint  great  figure  that  men  love, 
The  prairie-lawyer,  master  of  us  all. 

He  cannot  sleep  upon  his  hillside  now. 
He  is  among  us: — as  in  times  before! 
And  we  who  toss  and  lie  awake  for  long, 
Breathe  deep,  and  start,  to  see  him  pass  the  door. 

His  head  is  bowed.    He  thinks  of  men  and  kings. 
Yea,  when  the  sick  world  cries,  how  can  he  sleep? 
Too  many  peasants  fight,  they  know  not  why; 
Too  many  homesteads  in  black  terror  weep. 

The  sins  of  all  the  war-lords  burn  his  heart. 
He  sees  the  dreadnaughts  scouring  every  main. 
He  carries  on  his  shawl-wrapped  shoulders  now 
The  bitterness,  the  folly,  and  the  pain. 

He  cannot  rest  until  a  spirit-dawn 
Shall  come; — the  shining  hope  of  Europe  free: 
A  league  of  sober  folk,  the  Workers'  Earth, 
Bringing  long  peace  to  Cornland,  Alp,  and  Sea. 


THE   IDEAL   OF   PEACE  12$ 

It  breaks  his  heart  that  things  must  murder  still, 
That  all  his  hours  of  travail  here  for  men 
Seem  yet  in  vain.    And  who  will  bring  white  peace 
That  he  may  sleep  upon  his  hill  again? 

Vachel  Lindsay 

"  WHEN  THERE  IS  PEACE  " 

"  When  there  is  Peace  our  land  no  more 
Will  be  the  land  we  knew  of  yore." 
Thus  do  our  facile  seers  foretell 
The  truth  that  none  can  buy  or  sell 
And  e'en  the  wisest  must  ignore. 

When  we  have  bled  at  every  pore, 
Shall  we  still  strive  for  gear  and  store? 
Will  it  be  Heaven?     Will  it  be  Hell? 
When  there  is  Peace. 

This  let  us  pray  for,  this  implore: 
That  all  base  dreams  thrust  out  at  door, 
We  may  in  loftier  aims  excel 
And,  like  men  waking  from  a  spell, 
Grow  stronger,  nobler,  than  before, 
When  there  is  Peace. 

Austin  Dobs  on 

CLEAN  HANDS 

Make  this  thing  plain  to  us,  O  Lord! 
That  not  the  triumph  of  the  sword — 

Not  that  alone — can  end  the  strife, 

But  reformation  of  the  life — 
But  full  submission  to  Thy  Word! 


126  POEMS    OF    THE    WAR   AND    THE    PEACE 

Not  all  the  stream  of  blood  outpoured 
Can  Peace — the  Long-Desired — afford; 
Not  tears  of  IMother,  Maid,  or  Wife  . 
Make  this  thing  plain! 

We  must  root  out  our  sins  ignored, 
By  whatsoever  name  adored; 
Our  secret  sins,  that,  ever  rife, 
Shrink  from  the  operating  knife; 
Then  shall  we  rise,  renewed,  restored  . 
Make  this  thing  plain! 

Austin  Dobson 


EPILOGUE 

Intercession 

Now  the  muttering  gun-fire  dies, 

Now  the  night  has  cloaked  the  slain, 

Now  the  stars  patrol  the  skies. 
Hear  our  sleepless  prayer  again! 

They  who  work  their  country's  will, 

Fight  and  die  for  Britain  still. 

Soldiers,  but  not  haters,  know 

Thou  must  pity  friend  and  foe. 
Therefore  hear, 

Both  for  foe  and  friend,  our  prayer. 

Thou  whose  wounded  hands  do  reach 

Over  every  land  and  sea, 
Thoughts  too  deep  for  human  speech 

Rise  from  all  our  souls  to  Thee; 


THE   IDEAL   OF   PEACE  12  7 

Deeper  than  the  wrath  that  burns 
Round  our  hosts  when  day  returns; 
Deeper  than  the  peace  that  fills 
All  these  trenched  and  waiting  hills. 

Hear,  O  hear, 
Both  for  foe  and  friend,  our  prayer. 

Pity  deeper  than  the  grave 

Sees,  beyond  the  death  we  wield, 

Faces  of  the  young  and  brave 
Hurled  against  us  in  the  field. 

Cannon-fodder!     They  must  come 

We  must  slay  them,  and  be  dumb, 

Slaughter,  while  we  pity,  these 

Most  implacable  enemies. 
Master,  hear, 

Both  for  foe  and  friend,  our  prayer. 

They  are  blind,  as  we  are  blind, 

Urged  by  duties  past  reply. 
Ours  is  but  the  task  assigned; 

Theirs  to  strike  us  ere  they  die. 
Who  can  see  his  country  fall? 
Who  but  answers  at  her  call? 
Who  has  power  to  pause  and  think 
When  she  reels  upon  the  brink? 

Hear,  O  hear, 
Both  for  foe  and  friend,  our  prayer. 

Shield  them  from  that  bitterest  lie. 
Laughed  by  fools  who  quote  their  mirth, 

When  the  wings  of  death  go  by, 
And  their  brother  shrieks  on  earth. 


12  8         POEMS   OF   THE   WAR  AND   THE   PEACE 

Though  they  clamp  their  hearts  with  steel, 
Conquering  every  fear  they  feel, 
There  are  dreams  they  dare  not  tell. 
Shield,  O  shield  their  eyes  from  hell. 

Father,  hear. 
Both  for  foe  and  friend,  our  prayer. 

Where  the  naked  bodies  burn. 
Where  the  wounded  toss  at  home, 

Weep  and  bleed  and  laugh  in  turn, 
Yes,  the  masking  jest  may  come. 

Let  him  jest  who  daily  dies. 

But  O!  hide  his  haunted  eyes. 

Pain  alone  he  might  control. 

Shield,  0!   shield,  his  wounded  soul. 
Master,  hear. 

Both  for  foe  and  friend,  our  prayer. 

Peace?    We  steel  us  to  the  end. 

Hope  betrayed  us,  long  ago. 
Duty  binds  both  foe  and  friend. 
It  is  ours  to  break  the  foe. 
Then,  O  God!  that  we  might  break 
This  red  Moloch  for  Thy  sake; 
Know  that  Truth  indeed  prevails, 
And  that  Justice  holds  the  scales. 

Father,  hear, 
Both  for  foe  and  friend,  our  prayer. 

England,  could  this  awful  hour. 
Dawning  on  thy  long  renown, 

Mark  the  purpose  of  thy  power, 
Crowning  with  that  mightier  crown! 


THE   IDEAL   OF   PEACE  129 

Broadening  to  that  purpose  climb 
All  the  blood-red  wars  of  Time  .    .    . 
Set  the  struggling  peoples  free! 
Crown  with  Law  their  Liberty! 

England,  hear, 
Both  for  foe  and  friend,  our  prayer. 

Speed,  O!  speed,  what  every  age 

Writes  with  a  prophetic  hand. 
Read  the  midnight's  moving  page, 

Read  the  stars  and  understand: 
Out  of  Chaos  ye  shall  draw 
Deepening  harmonies  of  Law 
Till  around  the  Eternal  Sun 
All  your  peoples  move  in  one. 

Christ-God,  hear, 
Both  for  foe  and  friend,  our  prayer. 

Alfred  Noyes 

UNSER  GOTT 

They  held  a  great  prayer-service  in  Berlin, 

And  augured  German  triumph  from  some  words 

Said  to  be  spoken  by  the  Jewish  God 

To  Gideon,  which  signified  that  He 

Was  staunchly  partial  to  the  Israelites. 

The  aisles  were  thronged;  and  in  the  royal  box 

(I  had  it  from  a  tourist  who  was  there, 

Clutching  her  passport,  anxious,  like  the  rest). 

There  sat  the  Kaiser,  looking  "  very  sad." 

And  then  they  sang;  she  said  it  shook  the  heart. 


130         POEMS   OF   THE   WAR  AND   THE   PEACE 

The  women  sobbed;  tears  salted  bearded  lips 
Unheeded;  and  my  friend  looked  back  and  saw 
A  young  girl  crumple  in  her  mother's  arms. 
They  carried  out  a  score  of  them,  she  said, 
While  German  hearts,  through  bursting  German 

throats 
Poured  out,  Ein  Feste  Burg  1st  Unser  Gott! 

(Yea,  "Unser  Gott!     Our  strength  is  Unser  Gott! 
Not  that  light-minded  Bon  Dieu  of  France!  ") 

I  think  we  all  have  made  our  God  too  small. 

There  was  a  young  man,  a  good  while  ago, 

Who  taught  that  doctrine  ,   .   .  but  they  murdered 

him 
Because  he  wished  to  share  the  Jewish  God 
With  other  folk. 

They  are  long-lived,  these  fierce 
Old  hating  Gods  of  nations;  but  at  last 
There  surely  will  be  spilled  enough  of  blood 
To  drown  them  all!     The  deeps  of  sea  and  air, 
Of  old  the  seat  of  gods,  no  more  are  safe. 
For  mines  and  monoplanes.     The  Germans,  now. 
Can  surely  find  and  rout  the  God  of  France 
With  Zeppelins,  or  some  slim  mother's  son 
Of  Paris,  or  of  Tours,  or  Brittany, 
Can  drop  a  bomb  into  the  Feste  Burg, 
And,  having  crushed  the  source  of  German  strength, 
Die  happy  in  his  blazing  monoplane. 

Sad  jesting!     If  there  be  no  God  at  all, 
Save  in  the  heart  of  man,  why,  even  so — 


THE   IDEAL   OF   PEACE  131 

Yea,  all  the  more — since  we  must  make  our  God, 

Oh,  let  us  make  Him  large  enough  for  all. 

Or  cease  to  prate  of  Him!     If  kings  must  fight, 

Let  them  fight  for  their  glory,  openly, 

And  plain  men  for  their  lands  and  for  their  homes, 

And  heady  youths,  who  go  to  see  the  fun, 

Blaspheme  not  God.     True,  maybe  we  might  leave 

The  God  of  Germany  to  some  poor  frau 

Who  cannot  go,  who  can  but  wait  and  mourn. 

Except  that  she  will  teach  Him  to  her  sons — 

A  God  quite  scornful  of  the  Slavic  soul, 

And  much  concerned  to  keep  Alsace-Lorraine. 

They  should  go  godless,  too — the  poor,  benumbed 

Crushed,  anguished  women,  till  their  hearts  can  hold 

A  greater  Comforter! 

(Yet  it  is  hard 
To  make  Him  big  enough!     For  me,  I  like 
The  English  and  the  Germans  and  the  French, 
The  Russians,  too;  and  Servians,  I  should  think, 
Might  well  be  very  interesting  to  God. 
But,  do  the  best  I  may,  my  God  is  white, 
And  hardly  takes  a  nigger  seriously 
This  side  of  Africa.     Not  those,  at  least, 
Who  steal  my  wood,  and  of  a  summer  night 
Keep  me  awake  with  shouting,  where  they  sit 
With  monkey-like  fidelity  and  glee 
Grinding  through  their  well-oiled  sausage-mill — 
The  dead  machinery  of  the  white  man's  church — 
Raw  jungle-fervor,  mixed  with  scraps  sucked  dry 
Of  Israel's  old  sublimities:  not  those. 


132         POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

And  when  they  threaten  us,  the  Higher  Race, 
Think  you,  which  side  is  God's?    Oh,  let  us  pray 
Lest  blood  yet  spurt  to  wash  that  black  skin  white, 
As  now  it  flows  because  a  German  hates 
A  Cossack,  and  an  Austrian  a  Serb ! ) 

What  was  it  that  he  said  so  long  ago, 
The  young  man  who  outgrew  the  Jewish  God — 
"  Not  a  sparrow  falleth— ?  "     Ah,  God,  God, 
And  there  shall  fall  a  million  murdered  men! 

Karle  Wilson  Baker 

DAYBREAK 

Four  years  of  night  and  nightmare;  years  of  black 

Hate  and  its  murderous  attack. 

Four  years  of  midnight  terrors  till  the  brain, 

Beaten  in  the  intolerable  campaign. 

Saw  nothing  but  a  world  of  driven  men 

And  skies  that  never  could  be  clean  again. 

Hot  winds  that  tore  the  lungs,  great  gusts 

Of  rotting  madness  and  forgotten  lusts. 

Hills  draped  with  death;  the  beat  of  terrible  wings; 

Flowers  that  smelt  of  carrion;  monstrous  things 

That  crawled  on  iron  bellies  over  trees 

And  swarmed  in  blood  .   .    .  till  even  the  seas 

Were  one  wet  putrefaction,  and  the  earth 

A  violated  grave  of  trampled  mirth. 

What  light  there  was,  was  only  there  to  show 

Intolerance  delivering  blow  on  blow, 

Bigotry  rampant,  honor  overborn, 

And  faith  derided  with  a  blast  of  scorn 


THE  IDEAL   OF  PEACE  I33 

This  was  our  daily  darkness;  we  had  thought 

All  freedom  worthless  and  all  beauty  naught. 

The  eager,  morning-hearted  days  were  gone 

When  we  took  joy  in  small  things:  In  the  sun 

Tracing  a  delicate  pattern  through  thick  leaves 

With  its  long  yellow  pencils.     Or  blue  eaves 

Frosted  with  moonlight,  and  one  ruddy  star 

Ringing  against  the  night,  a  chime 

Like  an  insistent  single  rhyme. 

Or  see  the  full-blown  moon  stuck  on  a  spar, 

A  puff-ball  flower  on  a  rigid  stalk. 

Or  think  of  nothing  better  than  to  walk 

With  one  small  boy  and  listen  to  the  war 

Of  waters  pulling  at  a  stubborn  shore, 

And  laugh  to  see  the  waves  run  out  of  bounds 

Like  boisterous  and  shaggy  hounds. 

Watching  the  stealthy  rollers  come  alive, 

And  shake  their  silver  manes  and  leap  and  dive. 

Or  listen  with  him  to  the  voiceless  talk 

Of  fireflies  and  daisies;  feel  the  late 

Dusk  full  of  unheard  music,  or  vibrate 

To  a  more  actual  magic;  hear  the  notes 

Of  birds  with  sunset  shaking  on  their  throats. 

Or  watch  the  emetrald  and  olive  trees 

Turn  purple  ghosts  in  dusty  distances  .   •  >: 

The  city's  kindling  energy;  the  sweet 

Pastoral  of  an  empty  street. 

Football  and  friends;   lyrics  and  daffodils. 

The  sovereign  splendor  of  the  marching  hills — ' 

These  were  all  ours  to  choose  from  and  enjoy 


134         POEMS   OF   THE   WAR  AND   THE   PEACE 

Until  this  vast  disease  came  to  destroy 
The  casual  beneficence  of  life. 

But  now  a  thin  edge,  like  a  merciful  knife, 
Pierces  the  shadows,  and  a  chiselling  ray 
Cuts  the  thick  folds  away. 
Murmurs  of  morning;  glad,  awakening  cries; 
Hints  of  majestic  rhythms  rise. 
Dawn  will  not  be  denied.    The  blackness  shakes; 
And  here  a  brand  and  there  a  beacon  breaks 
Into  the  challenge  that  may  soon  be  hurled 
With  a  new  fire  for  a  burned-out  world. 
A  world  of  wide  experiments,  of  fair 
Disputes,  desires  and  tolerance  everywhere, 
With  laughter  loose  again  and  time  enough 
To  feel  the  warm-lipped  and  cool-fingered  love 
With  kindly  passion  lifted  from  the  dead; 
Where  daylight  shall  be  bountifully  spread 
And  darkness  but  a  wide  and  welcome  bed. 

Louis  Untermeyer 

A  SOLDIER'S  TESTAMENT 

If  I  come  to  die 

In  this  inhuman  strife, 

I  grudge  it  not,  if  I 
By  laying  down  my  life 

Do  aught  at  all  to  bring 
A  day  of  charity. 

When  pride  of  lord  or  king 
Un-powerful  shall  be 

To  spend   the  nations'  store, 


THE   IDEAL   OF   PEACE  I3S 

To  spill  the  peoples'  blood; 

Whereafter  evermore 
Humanity's  full  flood 

Untroubled  on  shall  roll 
In  a  rich  tide  of  peace, 

And  the  world's  wondrous  soul 
Uncrucified  increase. 

But  if  my  life  be  given 
Merely  that  lords  and  kings 

May  say,  "  We  well  have  striven! 
See!  where  our  banner  flings 

Its  folds  upon  the  breeze 
(Thanks,  noble  sirs,  to  you!). 

See  how  the  lands  and  seas 
Have  changed  their  pristine  hue  .   .   .'' 

If  after  I  am  dead 
On  goes  the  same  old  game, 

With  monarchs  seeing  red 
And  ministers  aflame. 

And  nations  drowning  deep 
In  quarrels  not  their  own. 

And  peoples  called  to  reap 
The  woes  they  have  not  sown;   ,    ,   o 

If  all  we  who  are  slain 
Have  died,  despite  our  hope, 

Only  to  twist  again 
The  old  kaleidoscope — 

Why  then,  by  God!  we're  sold! 
Cheated  and  wronged!  betrayed! 

Our  youth  and  lives  and  gold 


136         POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

Wasted — the  homes  we'd  made 

Shattered — in  folly  blind, 
By  treachery  and  spite, 

By  cowardice  of  mind 
And  little  men  and  light!    .    .   . 

If  there  be  none  to  build 
Out  of  this  ruined  world 

The  temple  we  have  willed 
With  our  flag  there  unfurled, 

If  rainbow  none  there  shine 
Across  these  skies  of  woe, 

If  seed  of  yours  and  mine 
Through,  this  same  hell  must  go, 

Then  may  my  soul  and  those 
Of  all  who  died  in  vain 

(Be  they  of  friends  or  foes) 
Rise  and  come  back  again 

From  peace  that  knows  no  end 
From  faith  that  knows  not  doubt. 

To  haunt  and  sear  and  rend 

The  men  that  sent  us  out. 

Eliot  Crawshay  Williams 
Bir  El  Mazar,  Egypt. 

VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW^ 

God,  I  am  travelling  out  to  death's  sea, 
I,  who  exulted  in  sunshine  and  laughter. 

Thought  not  of  dying — death  is  such  waste  of  me! 
Grant  me  one  comfort:  Leave  not  the  hereafter 

1  From  A  Sheaf,  by  John  Galsworthy;  copyright,  1916,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons,    By  cermission  of  the  publishers. 


THE   IDEAL   OF   PEACE  137 

Of  mankind  to  war,  as  though  I  had  died  not — 

I,  who  in  battle,  my  comrade's  arm  linking, 
Shouted  and  sang — life  in  my  pulses  hot 

Throbbing  and  dancing!     Let  not  my  sinking 
In  dark  be  for  naught,  my  death  a  vain  thing! 

God,  let  me  know  it  the  end  of  man's  fever! 
Make  my  last  breath  a  bugle  call,  carrying 

Peace  o'er  the  valleys  and  cold  hills,  for  ever! 

John  Galsworthy 


PAX  VENTURA 

Our  peace  was  but  a  honey-comb 
Whereon  we  fed  like  glutted  bees: 

Not  knowing  that  the  Peace  to  come 
Must  be  as  dangerous  as  the  seas. 

A  sword — a  magnitude — a  flame, 

A  holy  passion  brave  and  high; 
Not  for  this  peace  that  was  our  shame 

Do  ye,  Oh  our  redeemers,  die! 

Gather  us  up  out  of  our  sleep. 
And  pray  that  we  may  be  forgiven. 

Who  followed  life  like  frightened  sheep, 
Who  lived  in  Hell  and  spoke  of  Heaven. 

Margaret  Sackville 


138         POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 

TO  ONE  WHO  DENIES  THE  POSSIBILITY  OF  A 
PERMANENT  PEACE 

Old  friend,  I  greet  you!  you  are  still  the  same: 
You  poisoned  Socrates,  you  crucified 
Christ,  you  have  persecuted,  mocked,  denied, 

Rejected  God  and  cursed  Him  in  God's  name. 

You  gave  monotonously  to  the  flame 

All  those  (whom  now  you  honor)  when  the  new 
Truth  stung  their  lips — for  fear  it  might  be  true; 

Then  reaped  where  they  had  sown  and  felt  no  shame. 

Familiar  voice,  old  adversary — hail! 
Yesterday's  fools  are  now  your  gods.     Behold! 
The  generations  pass  and  we  can  wait. 
You  slandered  Darwin,  Florence  Nightingale; 
Now  a  new  splendour  quivers  in  the  cold 
Grey  shadows  overhead;  still  you  are  late. 

Margaret  Sackville 

THE  DEAD  MEN'S  WATCH 

{Over  the  Peace  Conference  in  Paris) 

In  the  white  and  delicate  city,  where  pleasure  mates 

with  art, 
There  are  ghosts  walking,  and  they  are  sick  at  heart. 

And  there  are  those  walking  that  drowned  in  the  deep 

seas, 
With  the  sands  in  their  thick  hair  and  the  weeds  about 

their  knees. 


THE   IDEAL    OF   PEACE  I 39 

And  there  are  those  walking  that  never  will  be  found 
By  the  bird  in  the  air  or  the  worm  under  the  ground. 

Thunder   clamored   and   flame   flew,   and   where   God's 

creature  went 
There  rose  but  a  little  smoke  from  the  grey  earth  foully 

rent. 

And  they  that  are  not,  in  their  thin  and  piteous  hosts 
Walk  the  streets  by  daylight,  the  grey,  unheeded  ghosts. 

And  fear  is  in  their  faces  and  horror  in  their  eyes — 
For  he  that  dies  in  vain,  a  double  death  he  dies. 

And  they  whisper  one  to  another,  and  they  murmur  their 

dull  pleas: 
"  What  if  the  peace  of  the  old  men  shall  be  a  toothed 

peace? 

"  What  if  the  peace  of  the  old  men  be  made  with  tooth 
and  claw. 

By  the  strong  according  to  his  strength,  as  in  the  crim- 
son law? 

"  Brother,  we  gave  our  only  life  the  crimson  law  to  kill, 
And  spilled  the  iron  chalice  out  upon  the  tortured  hilL 

"  Go,  sink  upon  his  shoulder,  and  whisper  at  his  ear, 
And  knock  at  the  heart  of  each  old  man,  that  he  may 
wake  and  hear: 


140         POEMS   OF   THE   WAR  AND  THE   PEACE 

"  And  glide  into  his  secret  sleep  and  dog  his  feet  by 

day, 
For  we  have  died  to  make  the  peace  the  old  men  live 

to  slay. 

"  Scavenger  birds  have  watched  for  us  upon  the  desert 

plains, 
Our  bones  are  bleached  in  endless  snows  and  washed 

with  mountain  rains. 

"  And  we  have  laid  ourselves  to  sleep  in  lands  we  never 

knew, 
Where  strangers'  feet  went  over  us  and  red  siroccos  blew. 

"  But  we  said  to  one  another,  deep  in  our  dreaming 

hearts: 
We  died  to  make  an  end  that  men  may  barter  death  in 
marts ; 

"  That  never  again  a  rich  man  batten  upon  his  scarlet 

gold— 
Nor  the  cold  silks  of  his  women  run  blood  from  every 

fold. 

"  Our  sons  ploughing  the  broken  fields  where  we  have 

moaned  and  lain. 
Shall  never  hear  the  rattling  drum  summoning  up  the 

slain — 

"  Summoning  up  the  living  men  with  the  seal  upon  their 

brows, 
And  Death  behind  the  trumpeter,  beckoning  from  his 

house. 


THE   IDEAL   OF   PEACE  14I 

"  Choked  with  high  words  and  wrapped  in  hate  and 

weaponed  with  a  he, 
So  we  went  forth  in  all  the  years,  helpless  to  live  or  die. 

"  But  now  they  make  a  peace  for  us,  that  the  world  may 

have  rest, 
And  the  sun  storming  up  the  east  and  shattering  down 

the  west. 

"  Shall  rise  upon  a  newer  world  that  has  forgot  to  kill: — 
For  this  we  fought  and  died,  my  brother — who  remem- 
bers still? 

"  But  now  the  old  men  make  the  peace ;   busy,  with 

crafty  eyes, 
They  carry  stones  for  the  temple  and  build  in  cunning 

wise: 

"  And  fear  is  in  our  hollow  eyes,  and  fear  eats  at  the 

heart. 
And  plucks  us  out  of  our  cool  graves  and  thrusts  us  in 

the  mart. 

"  And  we  must  walk  the  city  streets  and  watch,  early 

and  late, 
Lest  that  the  peace  the  old  men  make  should  be  a  peace 

of  hate." 

Ethel  Talbot  Scheffauer 


142  POEMS   OF   THE   WAR   AND   THE   PEACE 


VICTORY— WITHOUT  PEACE 

The  slaughter-bugles  screamed  once  more, 
Over  the  patchwork  lands  of  men, 
And  scattered,  sword-hewn  empires  tore 
Each  other's  greedy  hearts  again — 

One  with  a  black  and  boastful  greed, 
Seeking  a  red  supremacy; 
The  other  with  a  mumbled  creed 
That  it  was  armed  to  make  men  free. 

Each  steppe  and  pampa  woke  to  flame 
And  joined  the  berserker  advance; 
From  wild  forgotten  roads  they  came, 
For  the  world's  roads  all  led  to  France. 

And  now  no  more  the  hail  of  steel 

Tortures  the  lines  of  brown  and  gray  .    .    . 

The  brief,  joy-mad  processions  reel 

And  drop   .    .    .   and  it  is  peace,  men  say. 

Peace?    When  wherever  men  are  found 
The  victors  cry,  "  But  just  so  free!  " 
And  reddened  banners  spring  from  the  ground, 
For  freer  red  supremacy.  .   .   . 

A  hollow  shell  of  victory, 
With  war  still  writhing  at  its  heart; 
A  clipped  and  gelded  liberty. 
Striving  to  force  its  chain  apart! 


THE   IDEAL   OF   PEACE  I 43 

Yet  solvent  love  is  not  too  far, 
If  men  grow  wise,  or  mobs  stay  kind; 
And  we  could  calm  this  troubled  star, 
Its  singing  rapture  unconfined. 

Now  take  your  choice,  0  you  who  hoard 
Frail-fingered  power,  weak  lordly  breath; 
Young  freedom,  or  the  age-scarred  sword. 
Which  leaves  no  peace  on  earth — but  death. 

Clement  Wood 

1914— AND  AFTER 

Would  you  end  war? 
Create  great  Peace   .    .    . 

•  •  •  •  •  •  • 

But  that  which  we  call  Peace? 

This  monstrous  machine  that  weakens  millions  in  fac- 
tories. 

This  lust  of  money  for  its  own  sake:  to  swell  one's  social 
stomach  larger  than  one's  neighbor's   .    .    . 

This  poor  little  personal  strife  and  family  pride. 

This  softness  of  muscle  and  cowardice  of  spirit   .    .    . 

Is  this  Peace? 

Is  merely  keeping  alive,  Peace? 

Better  the  young  die  greatly  than  live  weakly  .   .   . 

Would  you  end  war? 
Create  great  Peace  .    .    . 
The  Peace  that  demands  all  of  a  man. 
His  love,  his  life,  his  veriest  self; 
Plunge  him  in  the  smelting  fires  of  a  work  that  becomes 
his  child, 


144         POEMS   OF   THE   WAR  AND   THE   PEACE 

Coerce  him  to  be  himself  at  all  hazards:  with  the  toil 
and  the  mating  that  belong  to  him: 

Compel  him  to  serve   .    .    . 

Give  him  a  hard  Peace:  a  Peace  of  discipline  and  jus- 
tice .   .   . 

Kindle  him  with  vision,  invite  him  to  joy  and  adventure: 

Set  him  to  work,  not  to  create  things 

But  to  create  men: 

Yea,  himself. 

Go  search  your  heart,  America  .    .   . 

Turn  from  the  machine  to  man, 

Build,  while  there  is  yet  time,  a  creative  Peace  .   .    . 

While  there  is  yet  time!    .    .    . 

For  if  you  reject  great  Peace, 

As  surely  as  vile  living  brings  disease. 

So  surely  shall  your  selfishness  bring  war. 

James  Oppenheim 

AFTERMATH  ^ 

Have  you  forgotten  yet? 

For  the  world's   events  have  rumbled  on  since  those 

gagged  days, 
Like  traffic  checked  awhile  at  the  crossing  of  city  ways: 
And   the   haunted    gap   in   your   mind   has   filled   with 

thoughts  that  flow 
Like  clouds  in  the  lit  heavens  of  life;  and  you're  a  man 

reprieved  to  go, 

1  Taken  by  permission  from  Picture-Show,  by  Siegfried 
Sassoon,  copyrighted  by  K  P.  Button  and  Company,  New 
York. 


THE   IDEAL   OF   PEACE  145 

Taking  your  peaceful  share  of  Time,  with  joy  to  spare. 
But   the  past   is  just   the  same — and  War's  a   bloody 

game   .    .    . 
Have  you  j  or  gotten  yet?  .    .    . 
Look  down,  and  swear  by  the  slain  of  the  War  that 

you'll  never  forget. 

Do  you  remember  the  dark  months  you  held  the  sector 

at  Mametz — 
The  nights  you  watched  and  wired  and  dug  and  piled 

sandbags  on  parapets? 
Do  you  remember  the  rats;  and  the  stench 
Of  corpses  rotting  in  front  of  the  front-line  trench — 
And  dawn  coming,  dirty-white,  and  chill  with  a  hopeless 

rain? 
Do  you  ever  stop  and  ask,  "  Is  it  all  going  to  happen 

again?  " 

Do  you  remember  that  hour  of  din  before  the  attack — 
And  the  anger,  the  blind  compassion  that  seized  and 

shook  you  then 
As  you  peered  at  the  doomed  and  haggard  faces  of  your 

men? 
Do  you  remember  the  stretcher-cases  lurching  back 
With  dying  eyes  and  lolling  heads — those  ashen-grey 
Masks  of  the  lads  who  once  were  keen  and  kind  and 

gay? 

Have  you  forgotten  yet?  .    .    . 

Look  up,  and  swear  by  the  green  of  the  spring  that  you'll 
never  forget. 

Siegfried  Sassoon 
March,  igig 


NOTES  ON  AUTHORS  AND  POEMS 

P.  I :  The  poem  from  which  this  quotation  is  taken  is  in- 
cluded in  Emile  Cammaerts'  Nczu  Belgian  Poems. 

P.  3:  The  Avenue  of  the  Allies  was  the  name  given  to  Fifth 
Avenue,  New  York  City,  as  it  was  decorated  with  the 
flags  of  the  AUied  nations  during  one  of  the  loan 
drives.  Mr.  Noyes  says  that,  as  he  once  came  into  the 
empty  street  at  midnight,  the  west  wind  tossing  the 
flags  reminded  him  of  Shelley's  Ode  to  the  West  Wind, 
and  so  was  the  original  suggestion  of  this  poem.  See 
note  on  p.  126  (p.  156). 

P.  6 :  Rupert  Brooke  is  generally  regarded  as  one  of  the  most 
brilliant  of  the  young  men  who  died  early  in  the  war. 
He  had  been  ill  and  had  traveled  across  North 
America  and  through  the  South  Seas  to  regain,  his 
health.  But  at  the  outbreak  of  the  war  he  volunteered 
as  ensign  in  the  Naval  Reserve  of  England.  He  died 
on  the  Island  of  Skyros  in  the  ^gean  Sea,  on  his  way 
to  Gallipoli,  on  April  22,,  1915.  His  sonnets  on  the 
war,  of  which  two  are  reprinted  here — The  Soldier 
and  the  Dead  (pp.  6  and  loi) — represent  the  finest 
expression  of  his  poetic  genius ;  the  entire  series,  as 
well  as  such  earlier  verses  as  "The  Great  Lover," 
should  be  read  in  the  Collected  Poems  of  Rupert 
Brooke  (1915). 

P.  7:  Helen  Gray  Cone  has  published  war  verses  in  A  Cliant 
of  Love  for  England  and  Other  Poems.  She  is  head 
of  the  Department  of  English  at  Hunter  College,  New 
York  City. 

P.  8:  Belgium  the  Bar-Lass  is  in  this  poem  compared  to 
Catherine  Douglass,  a  heroine  of  Scottish  legend.  The 
story  goes  that  she  thrust  her  arm  through  the  staples 
in  the  huge  monastery  door,  from  which  the  enemies  of 
the  King,  James  I,  had  removed  the  bar,  and  let  them 
break  her  arm  so  as  to  give  the  king  time  to  escape. 
Catherine's  courage  was  unavailing;  the  king  was  cap- 
tured and  slain.  His  eventful  history  is  told  in  Jus- 
serand's  Tlic  Romance  of  a  King's  Life  and  in  Rosetti's 
King's  Tragedy. 

A.  Mary  F.  Robinson  (Madame  Duclaux)  has  written 

147 


148  NOTES 

biographies  of  Ernest  Renan  and  of  Victor  Hugo,  and 
a  book  of  criticism,  I'wcnticth  Century  French  Writers, 
completed  in  August,  1914,  but  only  recently  published. 
P.  9:  Edith  Wharton,  one  of  our  most  distinguished  Ameri- 
can writers,  served  during  the  war  in  French  hospitals 
and  is  a  Chevalier  of  the  French  Legion  of  Honor. 
P.  10;  Serbia    to    tJie   Hohenzollerns:    Serbia    has    been    the 
battleground  of  eastern  Europe,  as  have  Flanders  and 
northern    France    in    the    west.      Particularly    in    the 
centuries  after  the  Turks   captured   Constantinople  it 
was  harried  by  their  vigorous  efforts  to  conquer  the 
whole  of  Europe. 

Cecil  Chesterton,  well  known  as  a  contributor  to 
British  journals,  served  as  private  in  a  Highland  regi- 
ment in  France.  He  is  a  nephew  of  G.  K.  Chesterton. 
P.  II.  George  Edivard  W oodberry  is  author  of  a  number  of 
poems  of  the  war,  published  in  various  journals  and  in 
The  Roamer  atid  Other  Poems  (1919). 
Viva  Italia  means  "  Hail  to  Italy  " ;  Ecco,  "  Behold !  " 

Major  Charles  Buxton  Going  is  author  of  two  vol- 
umes of  verse,  Summer  Falloiv  (Putnams,  1892),  and 
Star  Glow  and  Song  (Harpers,  1909)  ;  of  juvenile 
verse,  in  collaboration  with  Marie  Overton  Corbin, 
now  Mrs.  Going,  in  the  volumes  Urchins  of  the  Sea 
(Longmans,  1901),  and  Urchins  at  the  Pole  (Stokes, 
1902),  and  of  other  books,  technical  articles,  and  short 
stories. 

P.  12 :  Vive  la  France  means  something  like  "  Hail  to 
France!"  or  "Live,  O.France  I"  Its  significance  can 
be  best  understood  from  the  poem  itself.  A  sauterelle 
is  a  grasshopper.  This  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
of  modern  ballads. 

Charlotte  Holmes  Craivford  is  an  American  writer  of 
verses. 

P.  14:  Theodosia  Garrison  (Mrs.  Frederick  J.  Faulks)  has 
published  The  Joy  0'  Life  and  other  Poems  (1909), 
Earth    Cry    and    other    Poems,    and    The    Dreamers 

(1917). 

P.  17:  James  Oppenheim  is  an  American  poet.  His  free- 
verse  meters  often  suggest  the  sweep  and  power  of 
the  poetry  of  the  Psalms  in  our  King  James  trans- 
lation of  the  Bible.  See  note  on  1914 — and  After, 
p.  143   (p.  156). 

P.  18:  W.  N.  Elver  is  editor  of  the  Daily  Herald  (Lon- 
don), and  has  written  war  poetry  published  in  Five 


NOTES  149 

Souls,    and    Other    War-Time    Verses    {The    Herald, 
Loudon,  1916). 

P.  2;^ :  This  quatrain  is  from  Thomas  Hardy's  The  Dynasts,  a 
"massive  and  most  amazing"  drama  of  the  Napo- 
leonic Wars,  which  foreshadows  many  of  the  pictures 
of  the  Great  War  that  poets  have  shown,  and  the 
conclusions  they  have  reached.  Mr.  Hardy,  now  over 
eighty  years  old,  is  a  foremost  writer  of  English 
novels. 

P.  25:  Winifred  Letts  served  as  a  nurse  during  the  War. 
She  has  published  verses  in  the  Vale  Review  and  other 
journals,  and  in  a  volume  Hallowe'en,  and  Poems  of 
the  War. 

Connaught  is   one  of  the   four  ancient  kingdoms   of 
Ireland ;  the  Liffey  river  flows  through  Dublin. 

P.  27:  Mrs.  Karle  Wilson  Baker  is  the  author  of  Blue 
Smoke,  made  up  of  verses  which  appeared  originally 
in  Poetry,  the  Yale  Review,  and  other  magazines. 
Her  home  is  in  Nacogdoches,  Texas. 

P.  28:  Lieutenant  Edward  Wyndham  Tennant  enlisted  as  a 
schoolboy  of  seventeen,  at  the  beginning  of  the  war, 
and  was  killed  in  the  battle  of  the  Somme  in  1916. 
Lady  Glenconner  has  published  a  memorial  of  her  son 
(John  Lane,  1919). 

P.  31:  Francis  Lcdwidge,  son  of  Irish  peasants  and  himself 
a  laborer,  was  Lance-Corporal  in  Lord  Dunsany's 
regiment  in  France  and  in  the  East.  He  was  killed 
in  July,  1917.  Lord  Dunsany  has  edited  and  intro- 
duced his  Songs  of  the  Fields,  Songs  of  Peace,  and 
Last  Songs. 

P.  33:  Lctir  gaiete  fait  peur  (a  quotation  from  the  heroine 
of  W.  J.  Locke's  The  Rough  Road)  :  Their  gaiety 
makes  one  afraid. 

P.  35:  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson,  author  of  sharp  characteriza- 
tions of  British  soldiers  and  of  trench  life  in  Hill 
Tracks  and  Battle  and  Other  Verses,  served  as  a  pri- 
vate in  the  British  army  in  France. 

P.  36:  The  Tzva  Weelums  (The  Two  Williams)  is  written 
in  the  Scotch  dialect,  which  uses  broad  as  where  we 
use  o's  and  air  for  our  er;  gin  means  if;  ilka,  every; 
speir,  look;  fegs-aye,  yes  indeed;  ae,  one;  fechter, 
fighter;  besoms  (brooms)  a  disrespectful  word  for 
girls.  It  is  not  very  difficult  to  make  out  Sergeant 
Henderson's  plan  for  ending  the  war  at  once.  His 
boasting  reminds  one  of  the  huge  Highlander  James 
Dowie,  in  Barrie's  play  The  Old  Lady  Shows  Her 
Medals;  when  asked  how  he  had  captured  seven  Ger- 


150  NOTES 

mans,  as  he  boasted  he   had  done,  he   said,  "  In  the 
usual  way — surrounded  them  and  cut  them  off!" 

P.  2)7 '•  Frank  Sidgwick  is  a  member  of  the  pubUshing  firm  of 
Sidgwick  and  Jackson,  London. 

P.  39:  Sir  Henry  Newbolt  is  author  of  several  volumes  of 
poems  and  stories  of  the  sea  and  of  varied  adven- 
ture, including  Drake's  Drum,  The  Book  of  the  Thin 
Red  Line,  and  Poems  New  and  Old,  or  St.  George's 
Day. 

P.  40:  Cicely  Fox  Smith  has  published  war  verse  in  the  vol- 
umes Fighting  Men  and  The  Naval  Crown;  some  of 
her  poems  have  to  do  with  the  staunch  service  of  the 
British  Merchant  Marine,  as  do  Mr.  Noyes'  "  Old 
Captain  Stormalong,"  "  Kilmeny,"  and  "  The  Big  Black 
Trawler"  (of  the  sea-captain,  ninety  years  old,  who 
kept  warm  in  Arctic  weather  by  soaking  his  sea-boots 
and  dungarees  "  in  the  good  salt  water  that  the  good 
Lord  don't  let  freeze"). 

P.  42:  Captain  James  Norman  Hall,  an  American,  volun- 
teered at  the  outbreak  of  the  war  in  the  British  army, 
which  he  described  in  Kitchener's  Mob,  and  after- 
ward in  the  French  Aviation  Corps,  where  he  wrote 
High  Adventure.  He  was  wounded  and  taken  pris- 
oner in  191 7,  and  held  in  Germany  until  the  armistice. 

P.  46:  Sir  Oiven  Seaman,  for  many  years  the  editor  of  Lon- 
don Punch,  has  published  verses  in  War  Time  and 
Made  in  England. 

P.  47:  Richard  Aldington  served  as  No.  24965,  Eleventh 
Devons,  with  the  British  Expeditionary  Forces  in 
France;  his  war  poems,  some  of  them  of  extraor- 
dinary beauty  and  power,  are  printed  in  War  and 
Love. 

The  Faun  of  this  poem  is  of  course  the  goat-footed 
Roman  deity. 

P.  48:  Captain  Robert  Graves  served  with  the  Royal  Welsh 
Fusileers ;  his  Fairies  and  Fusilecrs  contains  verses 
both  of  whimsical  lightness  and  of  grim  power. 

P.  53:  London  Joe  of  course  talks  Cockney  English,  with  lib- 
eral displacement  of  H  and  7?.  s'y  for  say,  zv'y  for 
way,  blime  for  blame,  and  'arf  for  half.  A  quid  or 
sovereign  is  worth  about  five  dollars 

P.  56:  "Damon"  (Miss  G.  M.  Faulding")  was  connected  with 
the  British  Y.  M.  C.  A.  war  service  in  France. 

P.  57:  Lieutenant  Joseph  Lee,  at  first  a  private  in  the  British 
army  in  France,  was  taken  prisoner  in  November, 
191 7.  He  has  published  Ballads  of  Battle  and  Work- 
a-Day  Warriors,  illustrated  by  his  own  drawings. 


NOTES  151 

P.  58:  Captain  Charles  Hamilton  Sorley  was  killed  in  the 
battle  of  Loos  on  October  13,  1915,  at  the  age  of 
twenty.  His  verse,  of  beautiful  promise,  is  published 
in  the  volume  Marlborough  and  other  Poems.  His 
fine  and  broad  tolerance  is  shown  in  his  sonnet  To 
Germany  and  in  this  extract  from  a  letter  home  writ- 
ten during  his  army  training:  "I  thmk  that  Germany, 
in  spite  of  her  vast  bigotry  and  blindness,  is  in  a 
kind  of  way  living  up  to  the  motto  that  Goethe  left 
her  in  the  closing  words  of  Faust  before  he  died." 
He  translated  the  quatrain  from  Faust  (Part  H,  lines 
6944-7)    to   which   he  refers : 

Ay,  in  this  thought  is  my  whole  life's  persistence, 
This  is  the  whole  conclusion  of  the  true: 
He  only  owns   his  Freedom,  owns  existence, 
Who  every  day  must  conquer  them  anew. 

P.  58:  E.  H.  Visiak  has  published  war  verses  in  the  volume 
The  Battle  Fields  (Elkin  Matthews,  London,  1916). 

Pp.  62-63:  Captain  Siegfried  Sassoon,  graduate  of  Christ 
Church,  Oxford,  and  wearer  of  the  Military  Cross, 
is  author  of  poems  published  in  Counter-Attack  and 
Picture  Shoiv,  which  picture  the  war  as  it  appeared  to 
common  soldiers  in  trench  and  shell-hole,  in  France 
and  Palestine.  At  one  time  Captain  Sassoon,  after 
being  wounded,  gassed,  and  shell-shocked,  protested 
against  continuing  in  the  war,  and  in  order  to  get 
him  out  of  the  way  the  British  military  authorities 
committed  him  to  a  hospital  for  the  treatment  of 
shell-shock.  The  sights  he  saw  there  were  almost  as 
terrible  as  those  at  the  front;  and  the  thought  of  his 
men  bearing  the  brunt  in  France  compelled  him  to  ask 
return  to  service  to  endure  with  them.  He  refers  to 
this  experience  in  the  poem  "  Banishment,"  in 
Counter-Attack. 

P.  64:  William  Ell  cry  Leonard  is  associate  professor  of  Eng- 
lish at  the  University  of  Wisconsin,  and  is  author  of 
The  Vaunt  of  Man  and  Other  Poems,  The  Lynching 
Bee  and  Other  Poems  (from  which  "  The  Pied  Piper" 
is  taken),  and  of  other  verse,  studies,  and  translations. 
Many  of  his  verses  in  The  Lynching  Bee  deal  in 
forthright  and  courageous  fashion  with  the  results  of 
war-hysteria  in  this  country. 

Shell-Shock:  It  adds,  not  to  the  literary  interest,  but 
to  the  historical  and  reflective  value  of  these  verses  to 
know  that  they  record  an  actual  incident  of  post- 
war rehabilitation,  as  told  by  an  army  physician. 


152  NOTES 

P.  65 :  Lady  Margaret  SackviUc's  war  poems  have  been  pub- 
lished in    The  Pageant  of   War   (1916),  and  Selected 
Poems   (1919)- 
Quo   Vaditis? — Where  are  you  going? 

Captain  Gilbert  Frankau  was  engaged  actively  in  the 
British  artillery  service  until  retired  for  invalidity  in 
1918.  His  war  poems  are  published  in  The  Judgment 
of  Valhalla,  One  of  Them,  A  Song  of  the  Guns,  and 
The  Other  Side  and  Other  Verses,  from  the  last  of 
which  the  two  poems  here  reprinted  are  taken. 

P.  68:  May  Sinclair  is  a  distinguished  British  writer,  author 
of  The  Divine  Fire  and  other  novels. 
Via  dolorosa,  via  sacra    (dolorous  way,  sacred  way) 
is  a  name  usually  given  to  Christ's  route  to  Golgotha, 
the  place  of  crucifixion. 

P.  70:  Captain  William  G.  Shakespeare  served  during  the 
war  as  a  medical  officer  in  the  British  army;  his  war 
verse  is  published  in  Ypres  and  Other  Poems. 

P.  74:  Misericordia  means  pity:  the  word  has  other  inter- 
esting meanings.  Evidently  the  old  toy-maker  thinks 
he  is  in  part  responsible  for  bringing  about  war.  How 
does  he  feel  about  this?  A  pietd  is  an  image  of 
Christ's  dead  body  carried  in  his  mother's  arms. 
Amy  Lowell's  recent  poetry  has  appeared  in  the  vol- 
umes Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts,  Szvord  Blades  and 
Poppy  Seeds,  and  Pictures  of  the  Floating   World. 

P.  75 :  Dana  Burnet  was  a  war  correspondent  in  France  for 
the  New  York  Evening  Sun. 

P.  76:  A.  E.  is  the  pen  name  of  George  William  Russell,  an 
Irish  writer  and  nationalist  leader  of  great  and  indi- 
vidual power.  His  collected  poems  were  published 
by  the  Macmillan  Company  (1912-17),  and  Gods  of 
War  and  Other  Poems  was  privately  printed  in  Dub- 
lin, 1916. 

P.  82:  Captain  Julian  Grenfell,  oldest  son  of  Lord  Des- 
borough,  died  of  wounds  in  France  May  26,  191 5; 
Into  Battle  appeared  in  the  Times  (London)  of  May 
28.    He  had  received  the  Distinguished  Service  Order. 

P.  84:  Lieutenant  Robert  Nichols  served  in  the  British  army 
during  the  war  until  discharged  for  invalidity  in  1916. 
His  war  poems  are  published  in  the  volume  Ardours 
and  Endurances;  he  has  also  introduced  Captain  Sas- 
soon's  Counter-Attack. 

P.  85:  F.  W.  Harvey,  as  Lance-Corporal  in  the  Fifth  Glouces- 
ters,  gained  the  Distinguished  Conduct  Medal  in 
August,    1915.     He   was    later   trained   as   an   officer. 


NOTES  153 

His  first  volume  of  poems,  A  Glouccsicrshire  Lad, 
was  published  at  a  time  when  its  author  was  reported 
missing.  Afterward  word  was  received  that  he  was 
prisoner  of  war  in  Germany,  and  his  volume  Glouces- 
tershire Friends  was  sent  home  from  there  by 
special  permission.  Comrades  in  Captivity,  a  lively 
account  of  his  experiences  in  seven  German  prisons, 
and  Ducks  and  Other  Verses  have  been  published 
since  his  return  to  England. 
P.  86 :  The  Last  Post,  or  Taps,  is  the  bugle  call  for  lights 
out,  and  is  played  over  the  graves  of  soldiers.  In 
Rouge  Bouquet  (p.  102)  Joyce  Kilmer  imitates  the 
rhythm  of  the  bugle  notes  in  this  call. 

Lieutenant  P.  H.  B.  Lyon,  awarded  the  British  Mili- 
tary Cross,  has  published  war  poems  both  serious  and 
pleasantly  whimsical  in  Poems  of  Youth  and  War. 
Moriiuri  Te  Salutant:  "Those  about  to  die  salute 
thee." 
P.  88:  Robert  Ernest  Vernede,  though  of  middle  age  at  the 
opening  of  the  war,  enlisted  at  once  and  served  as 
second  lieutenant  till  his  death  in  April,  1917.  His 
poems  have  been  published  with  an  appreciative  intro- 
duction by  his  friend  Edmund  Gosse. 

Wilfred  Ozven,  a  captain  in  the  Manchester  Regiment, 
was  killed  at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  only  a  week  be- 
fore the  armistice.  He  had  been  invalided  home  in 
1917,  but  he  "came  out  again,"  as  he  wrote  to  his 
mother  a  month  before  his  death,  "in  order  to  help 
these  boys ;  directly,  by  leading  them  as  well  as  an 
officer  can;  indirectly,  by  watching  their  sufferings, 
that  I  may  speak  of  them  as  well  as  a  pleader  can." 
In  an  unfinished  Preface  to  his  poems,  found  among 
his  papers,  he  had  written: 

Above  all,  this  book  is  not  concerned  with  Poetry. 
The  subject  of  it  is  War,  and  the  pity  of  War. 
The  Poetry  is  in  the  pity. 

The  terrible  pity  of  the  poems  here  included,  and  of 
such  great  verses  as  An  Anthem  for  Doomed  Youtli, 
Greater  Love,  Apologia  pro  Poemate  Meo,  Mental 
Cases,  The  Dead-Beat,  The  Sentry,  and  A  Terre  goes 
far  to  justify  the  opinion  of  critics  who  have  claimed 
for  Wilfred  Owen's  small  volume  the  distinction  of 
including  some  of  the  greatest  poetry  of  the  war. 
The  book  is  introduced  by  Siegfried  Sassoon. 


154  NOTES 

Dulcc  ct  decorum  est  pro  patria  tnori  may  be  trans- 
lated "  Sweet  and  lovely  it  is  to  die  for  one's  coun- 
try." 
P.  90:  Alan  Seeger,  a  young  American  poet,  fought  from 
the  beginning  of  the  war  in  the  French  Foreign 
Legion,  and  died  of  wounds  July  5,  1916.  His  Col- 
lected Poems  and  Letters  and  Diary  have  since  been 
published. 
P.  91  :  Lieutenant-Colonel  John  McRae  was  a  Canadian  phy- 
sician who  served  notably  at  the  front  and  in  the 
war  hospitals  until  his  death  in  January,  1918.  In 
Flanders  Fields,  first  published  in  London  Punch,  is 
the  title  poem  of  a  volume  of  his  verse  since  issued 
in  the  United  States  and  in  Great  Britain. 
This  poem  is  a  rondeau;  the  form,  further  illustrated 
in  this  collection  by  the  two  poems  by  Austin  Dobson, 
has  a  distinct  scheme  of  long  and  short  lines  and  of 
rhyme.  Few  of  the  many  imitators  of  the  poem  took 
the  trouble  to  master  its  form.  Many  delightful 
rondeaus  and  other  French  forms  in  English  verse 
are  contained  in  Gleason  White's  Ballades  and  Ron- 
deaus. 
P.  gi :  The  Very-light  was  a  star-shell  which  illuminated  bril- 
liantly the  space  between  the  trenches,  to  prevent 
night-attacks. 
P.  100:  The  Going  is  Mr.  Gibson's  word  of  farewell  to  his 

friend  Rupert  Brooke. 
P.  102 :  Joyce  Kilmer,  American  poet  and  soldier,  was  killed 
in  France,  at  the  age  of  2>2,  in  July,  1918.     His  war 
poems    appeared    in   Main   Street   and    other   Poems 
and   in   his  Poems,   Essays,   and  Letters.     His   be^t 
known  and  most  beautiful  poem  is   Trees.     See  the 
note  on  Captain  Graves'  The  Last  Post,  p.  86  (p.  I53j. 
J-iouge  Bouquet  means  literally  Red  Bouquet. 
P.  105 :  Lieutenant  Herbert  Asquith,  son  of   former  premier 
Asquith,  served  in  the  British  army  in  France;   his 
verse  appeared  in  The   Volunteer  and  Other  Poems. 
P.  106:  Louis  Untermeyer  has  published  several  volumes  of 
verse:     The     Younger     Quire     (1910),     First    Love 
(1911),    Challenge    (1914   and    1915),   —   and    Other 
Poets — parodies   of  various  writers    (1916),  and   In-\ 
eluding    Horace — further    parodies     (1919) ;     These  ^ 
Times  (191 7),  and  The  New  Adam  (1920),  "a  more 
or   less   integrated    series    of    lyrics ; "   and    contribu-i 
tions  to  the  Miscellany  of  American  Poetry   (1920),! 
to    which    Amy    Lowell,    Robert    Frost,    John    Gould 
Fletcher,    James    Oppenheim,    Vachel    Lindsay,    and 


NOTES  155 

Jean  Starr  Untermeyer  have  also  contributed.  Mr. 
Untermeyer  has  edited  Modern  A)Hcrica>i  Poetry 
and  Modern  British  Poetry,  selective  and  critical 
anthologies  published  in  1920,  and  a  volume  of  transla- 
tions of  Heine. 

P.  107 :  Laurence  Binyon's  war  verse  is  published  in  The 
IVinnowing  Fan,  The  Cause,  The  New  World,  and 
For  the  Fallen  and  Other  Poems. 

P.  108:  Edn'ard  I'errall  Lucas  has  published  since  1899  many 
volumes  of  poems,  familiar  essays,  and  stories,  and 
edited  the  Letters  of  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb. 

P.  1 10:  Edith  Cavetl,  a  British  Red  Cross  Nurse  m  Belgium, 
was  executed  by  the  German  military  authorities  on 
a  charge  of  helping  Belgian  soldiers  to  escape.  A 
statue  to  her  memory  has  been  erected  in  Brussels. 

P.  Ill  :  Robert  Frost,  at  various  times  a  farmer  and  a  college 
professor,  has  been  recently  appointed  a  Fellow  in 
English  at  the  University  of  Michigan.  He  has  pub- 
lished several  volumes  of  distinguished  verse,  includ- 
ing A  Boy's  Will,  North  of  Boston,  and  Mountain 
Interval. 

P.  112:  Jean  Starr  Untermeyer,  wife  of  Louis  Untermeyer, 
has  published  war  poems  and  other  verses  in  the 
volume  Growing  Pains  (1919). 

P.  113:  Sara  Teasdale  (Mrs.  Edward  Filsinger)  has  published 
many  charming  lyrics  in  Rivers  to  the  Sea  (1915)  and 
other   volumes,   and    in   various   periodicals. 

P.  116:  F.  IV.  Bourdillon  has  published,  besides  several 
volumes  of  his  own  verses,  from  1878  to  1892,  edi- 
tions and  translations  of  Aucassin  and  Nicolette,  the 
Roman  de  la  Rose,  and  other  romances. 

P.  117:  John  Gould  Fletcher  has  published  numerous  volumes 
of  poems:  Fire  and  Wine  (1913),  Irradiations  (1915), 
Goblins  and  Pagodas  (1916),  The  Tree  of  Life 
(1918),  and  Japanese  Prints  (1918)  ;  he  has  contrib- 
uted to  Some  Imagist  Poets  and  Nezv  Paths,  and 
to  the  Yale  Review,  from  which  A  New  Heaven  is 
taken,  and  other  magazines. 

P.  121 :  William  Rose  Benet  has  published  several  volumes 
containing  strong  and  individual  poems:  Merchants 
from  Cathay  (1913),  The  Falconer  of  God  (1914), 
The  Great  White  Wall  (1916),  and  The  Burglar  of 
the  Zodiac   (191 8). 

P.  123:  Vachel  Lindsay,  well  known  as  an  American  poet  of 
distinctive  force,  has  published  among  other  volumes 
of  poems  The  Congo,  The  Chinese  Nightingale,  and 
The  Golden  Whales  of  California. 


156  NOTES 

P.  125 :  Among  Austin  Dobson's  volumes  of  poetry  are 
Proverbs  in  Porcelain  (1877),  At  the  Sign  of  the 
Lyre  (1885),  Old-World  Idylls  (1883);  his  Collected 
Poems  were  first  issued  in  1897,  the  ninth  edition  in 
1913.  A  Bookman's  Budget  (1917)  contains  both 
prose  and  verse. 
See  note  on  the  rondeau,  p.  91   (p.  154). 

P,  126:  Alfred  Noyes,  Enghsh  poet,  has  been  at  various 
tirnes  a  member  of  the  Department  of  English  of 
Princeton  University.  His  war  poems,  including 
several  ballads  of  the  trawling  fleet  that  served  as 
mine  sweepers  in  the  North  Sea  (see  note  on  p.  40 
(p.  150)  ),  are  published  in  A  Belgian  Christmas  Eve, 
The  Lord  of  Misrule,  and  The  Neiv  Morning,  and 
in  the  third  volume  of  his  Collected  Poems.  In  "  A 
Victory  Dance "  Mr.  Noyes  presents  sharply  the 
selfishness  of  those  who  betrayed  the  ideals  of  the 
war  and,  immediately  after  the  Armistice,  have  quite 
forgotten  its  sacrifices. 

P.  129:  Unser  Gott:  Our  God  (German)  ;  ton  dieu,  the  good 
God   (French). 
See  note  on  p.  27  (p.  149). 

P.  134 :  Lieutenant-Colonel  Eliot  Crawshay-WiUiams  has 
published  in  England  three  volumes  of  verse,  all  con- 
taining war  poems:  Songs  on  Service  (Blackwell), 
The  Gutter  and  the  Stars  (Erskine  Macdonald),  and 
Clouds  and  the  Sun    (George  Allen  and  Unwin). 

P.  136;  Jolin  Galsivorthy,  author  of  most  significant  novels 
and  essays,  and  the  foremost  writer  of  contemporary 
drama  in  English,  served  during  the  War  as  a  masseur 
in  the  hospitals.  His  war  writings  are  in  part  in- 
cluded in  A  Sheaf  and  Another  Sheaf — many  of  the 
papers  urging  with  strong,  quiet  emphasis  the  duty 
of  peace-reconstruction. 

P.  137:  Pax  Ventura:  the  coming  peace. 

P.  138:  Ethel  Talbot  Schcffauer,  an  Englishwoman,  contrib- 
uted "  The  Dead  Men's  Watch "  to  the  New  Age 
(London),  in  1919. 

P.  142:  Clement  Wood  has  quite  recently  written  a  beautiful 
poem,  "  Canopus,"  which  has  attracted  especial  in- 
terest because  of  its  development  of  a  type  of  seven- 
line  stanza  with  apparently  considerable  possibilities 
for  use  in  narrative  verse.  The  poem  was  published 
in  the  Summer  Book  Supplement  to  the  New  York 
Nation,  June  22,   1921. 

P.  143:  "1914 — and  After"  and  other  poems  in  Mr.  Oppen- 
heim's    two    volumes    War   and   Laughter   and    The 


NOTES  157 

Solitary — especially  the  verses  "  Shadow  "  and  "  The 
Sea  "—should    be    read    entire     for    a    clear    under- 
standing  of   the   writer's   significant   attitude   toward 
war  and  peace. 
P.  144:  See  the  note  on  pp.  62-3  (p.  151). 


INDEX 


Titles  of  poems  are   in  italics, 
the  Notes  on  Authors  and  Poems. 


Numbers  in  italics  refer  to 


Abraham  Lincoln   Walks 

at  Midnight 123 

A.E.      (George     Herbert 

Russell)    76,  132 

Aftermath    144 

Aldington,   Richard 

•  ■ 47.  61,  107,  130 

Allies,  Avenue  of  the  . .  3 
All   the  Hills  and    Vales 

Along     81 

America  at  War 16 

Anonymous    30 

Asquith,  Herbert 104,  134 

Attack   63 

Avenue  of  the  Allies  ....  3 

Baker,  Karle   Wilson. . . . 

27,  129,  149 

Band,  the  Toy   39 

Bar-Lass,  Belgium  the.  .8,  147 

Barrage  61 

Battle,  Blind  Man's   58 

Battle,  Into    82 

Belgium    9 

Belgium  the  Bar-Lass.  .8,  14? 
Benet,  William  Rose  121,  133 
Binyon,    Laurence.  . .  .107,  133 

Blind  Men's  Battle  58 

Bouquet,  Rouge  T02,  134 

Bourdillon.  F.  W.  ...tt6,  135 
British  Merchant  Service, 

191 5    40 

Brooke,   Rupert    

6,  lOi,  147,  134 


Bugler,  The  85 

Burnet,  Dana   75,  133 

Cavell,    Edith no,  133 

Chant  of  Love  for  Eng- 
land           7 

Chesterton,    Cecil    ....10,  148 

Clean  Hands  125 

Co)nplains,  The  Faun  47,  130 
Comrades:  An  Episode 

^ 91,   154 

Cone,   Helen   Gray 7,  147 

Connaught  Rangers,   The 

25,   149 

Country,  The  Red  121 

Crawford,     Charlotte 

Holmes  12,  148 

Crawshay- Williams,  Eliot 

134,   J56 

Cross  in  Flanders,  A   . . .   105 

"Damon"    (Miss    G.    M. 

Faulding)     56,  131 

Darkness,  During    112 

Davbreak    132 

Dead  Aden's  Watch,  The  138 

Dead.   The    loi 

Death,  I  Have  a  Rendez- 
vous With   90 

Debt,  The  108 

Denies,  To  One  Who   . .   138 

Dobson,   Austin 125,  136 

Dttlce  et.  Decorum  Est. . . 

88,  134 

During   Darkness   112 

159 


i6o 


INDEX 


Eagle  Youth   27 

Edith  dwell   1 10,  133 

England,     A     Chant     of 

Love  for 7 

Epilogue:  Intercession. . .   126 

Escape  48 

Ewer,  W.  N 18,  149 

Fallen,  For  the  107 

Fallen  Subaltern,  The  . .   104 

Father,  His   35 

Faun  Complains,  The  47.  ^50 
Field   Ambulance   in  Re- 
treat        68 

Field    of    Honor,"    "On 

the    106 

Finger     and      a     Huge, 

Thick  Thumb,  A   42 

Five  Souls   18 

Flanders,  A  Cross  in  ...  105 
Flanders  Fields,  In  .  .91,  154 
Fletcher,  John  Gould  117,  755 

Form  Fours 37 

For  the  Fallen  107 

France,  Red-Robed 11 

France,  Vive  la   12,  148 

Frankau,  Gilbert.. 65,  95,  /J-? 
Frost,  Robert in,  i55 

Galsworthy,  John  . .  136,  156 
Garrison,   Theodosia. .  14,   148 

German  Prisoners   57 

Germany,  To    58,  751 

Gibson,      Wilfrid      Wil- 
son    35,  100,  149,  154 

Gods  of  War  76 

Going,     Charles     Buxton 

If,  148 

Going,   The    (To   R.   B.) 

100.  154 

Graves.  Robert  48,86,116,750 
Grenf ell,  Julian  82,  I5> 

Hall,  James  Norman  42,  S3,  J50 

Hamilton,  G.  R 105 

Hands,  Clean   125 


Harvey,  F.  W 85,  I53 

Hate    53,    750 

Heart-Cry    116 

Heaven,  A  Neiv 117 

Hills    and    Vales    Along, 

All  the 81 

His  Father  35 

Hohenzollerns,  Serbia  to 

the    10,    14S 

Home      Thoughts     from 

Laventie    28 

/     Have    a    Rendecvous 

With  Death   90 

In    Flanders    Fields.. gi,    134 

Intercession      126 

In  the  Trenches  II 61 

Into    Battle    82 

Italian  Front,  On  the  11,  148 

Jacob,  Violet  36 

Jeanne   d'Arc,    The   Soul 
of    14 

Kilmer,  Joyce   102,  134 

Land,  My    17,  J48 

Last  Post,   The    86,   133 

Laventie,  Home  Thoughts 

from 28 

Ledwidge,  Francis   ...31,  149 

Lee,  Joseph    57,  75/ 

Leonard,  William   Ellery 

64,  73,  151 

Letts,  Winifred    ..25,  26,  149 
Light  Heart,   Thomas  of 

the    46 

Lincoln    Walks    at    Mid- 
night     123 

Lindsay,  Vachel  ....   123,  756 

Lowell,  Amy 74,  152 

Lucas,  E.  V 108,  755 

Lyon,  P.  H.  B 86,  153 

McRae,  John   . 91,  I54 

Merchant    Service,    Brit- 
ish,  1913     40 


INDEX 


i6i 


Misericordia    74,    ^5^ 

Missing   114 

Moriiuri  Te  Sahitant  86,  153 
My  Land  17,  148 

Napoleon's  Tomb   75 

Nearer     84 

Newbolt,   Henry   39,   ^50 

New  Heaven,  A  . .-. 117 

Nichols,  Robert   ..84,  91,  I53 
igi4—and  After  . . .    I43,  156 

Not  to  Keep  m 

Not  Dead 116 

Noyes,  Alfred   ..   3,   1^6,  156 

"  On  the  Field  of  Honor"  106 
On  the  Italian  Front  11,   14S 
One     Who     Denies     the 
Possibility  of  a  Perma- 
nent Peace,  To  138 

Oppenheim,  James  17,  143,  14S 

Other  Side,  The 65 

Owen.  Wilfred    88.  153 

Oxford,  The  Spires  of..     26 

Pax  Ventura  T37,  156 

Peace,  When  there  is  ...  125 

Petition.  A  88 

Picardv.  St.  Oucn  in  ....  30 

Pied  Piper.  The 73, 

Placard,    The    56 

Place,  The   31 

Post,  The  Last   86,  153 

Prisoners,  German   57 

Question,  The 35 

Quo   Vaditis?  65,  152 

Rangers.  The  Connaught    25 

Ravenel,   Beatrice    114 

R.    B.,     To — The     Going 

100,    154 

Red  Country,  The  121 

Red-Robed  France 11 

Refugees,   The    69 


Rendezvous   with   Death, 

I  Have  a  go 

Retreat,  Field  Ambulance 

in 68 

Hoiv     Rifleman     Brown 

Came  to  Valhalla  ....  95 
Robinson,     A     Mary     F. 

(Madame  Duclaux)  8,  14? 
Rouge  Bouquet  ....  102,  154 
Sackville,   Margaret    

;.  65,  137,  138,  152 

St.  Ouen  in  Picardy  ....  30 
Sassoon,    Siegfried  62-3, 

144.    151 

Scheflfauer,    Ethel   Talbot 

138,   75^ 

Seaman,  Owen  46,  150 

Seeger,  Alan    90,  154 

Serbia  to   the  Hohensol- 

lerns   10,   148 

Shadow,  Valley  of  the  .  .  136 
Shakespeare,   William    G. 

69,    J 5? 

Shell-Shock  64,  152 

Side,  The  Other 65 

Sidgwick,  Frank   ....   37,  150 

Sinclair,  May   68,  152 

Smith,   C.   Fox    40,  J 50 

Smith,   Gertrude    16 

Soft    Rains,    There    Will 

Come    113 

Soldier,   The    6 

Soldier's  Testament,  A  . .  134 
Sorley,  Charles  Hamilton 

58,  81,  151 

Souls,  Five    18 

Soul    of    Jeanne     d'Arc, 

The 14 

Spires  of  Oxford,  The.  .     26 

Spring  in  Wartime 1 1.'; 

Subaltern,  The  Fallen...   104 

Teasdale,  Sarah  ...  IT3,  155 
Tennant,     E.     Wyndham 

.28,  149 

Testament,  A  Soldier's. .  134 


l62 


INDEX 


There    Will    Come    Soft 

Rains   1^3 

Thomas     of     the     Lujht 

Heart   40 

Tomb,  Napoleon's  75 

To  Gerviany    58,   151 

To  One  Who  Denies  the 
Possibility  of  a  Perma- 
nent Peace  ^38 

Toy  Band,  The 39 

Tree,  A   Young   107 

Trenches,  In  the,  II 61 

Troops,   The   62 

Tzva  Weclums,  The... 3,6,  14Q 

Unser  Gott    129,   156 

Untermeyer,    Jean    Starr 

T12,  755 

Untermever,  Louis  106. 
132,   J 54 


Valhalla,   Hozv   Rifleman 

Broivn  Came  to  ..••  95 
I'alley  of  the  Shadow  . .  136 
Vernede,    Robert    Ernest 

88,  153 

Ventura,  Pax   137,  156 

Victory— Without     Peace  142 

Visiak,  E.  H 58,  J 5^ 

Vive  la  France!   12,  148 

Watch,  The  Dead  Men's  138 
Wcelums.    The    Tzva   36,    149 

Wharton,   Edith    9-   14^ 

When  there  is  Peace  ...   125 
Williams,  Crawshav,  Eliot 

134.  J5(5 

Wood,   Clement    142 

Woodberry,    George    Ed- 
ward      II,  no,  148 


Vaditis,  Quo 


Younq  Tree.  A  107 

65,  152      Youth,  Eagle    27 


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